Waking Up
Daylight leaks
in, and
sluggishly I surface
from my own dreams into the common dream
and things assume
again their proper places
and their accustomed shapes. Into this present
the
Past intrudes, in all its dizzying range—
the centuries-old habits of migration
in birds and men, the armies in their legions
all fallen to the sword, and Rome
and Carthage.
The trappings of
my day also
come back:
my voice, my face, my
nervousness, my luck.
If only Death, that other waking-up,
would grant me a
time free of all memory
of my own name and all that I have been!
If only morning meant oblivion!