How strange these days that are all 

The same. Today seems to come ahead 

Of itself: the early light creeps down 

The downspouts in the wash area 

Next to the kitchen. It strikes something 

Red inside my room (a shoe box or a bit 

Of garish packaging), so that the yellow-

Gray dawn is tinged as if with blood. 

How strange or the same would this 

Day be? How will it spend itself

As it grows old like all the others?

Today it brought the residue of old, 

Secret loves, conjured and nurtured 

At the edge of sleep, as prurient and 

Lubricious as the gasping or grasping 

Imagination could muster. Flimsy 

Figments in the night air, they flirt and 

Flee before being caught by the light, 

As swift and heedless as the day falls 

Into habit. Abandoned by the comfort

Of the dark, the waking mind rises

To receive the day with bated breath, 

Blinking in the harsh light, only

Once more to be stalked by death.

 

 

Marne Kilates

9 May 2020

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