The Next Day, the Night Before

Arrive here, and hold the morning quietly

In my eyes: Last night, the mockingbird

Was playing nightingale—I know, even though

I’ve never heard one. I let that go. Awake,

Listening, like Keats, I was lost—which means,

I suppose, that I was playing nightingale.

 

If you don’t know it, you should; it’s gorgeous

And you’ll never understand it. That’s the

Thing, the love. Surpass the random moment

And ask, What is this? What can it connect?

Take it, listen, hold it quietly in your eyes.

This is the morning after the singing bird.