for us to think on our own frequency
to overlook our companions:
the large red dictionary, the lover
asleep upstairs, the collected
poems of Octavio Paz
discreet in sunlight, lightly used and white.
I’ve come to realize
seated on a morning of diminishing
returns, a rawness
of attitudes, frost, still water of the lake.
I’m exposed by my complacency.
I grieve unopposed. I look on the harmony
of all that survives
in the purpose of itself and wonder
and smile at all that had been
given me I have now rediscovered.