Daphne Marlatt
Seven glass bowls (em The Given)
you remember – what is it you remember?
the feel of home, that moment of coming into your body,
its familiar ache and shift, its little cough of consciousness
resuming (Monday claims). i’m awake. i can’t quite see
your face assume its usual definition. your shoulder rises
like a hill i climb getting on my side of the bed to pad
to the sunroom, lift the blind on a spectral world. one early
dog racing across the park, its breath steaming up through
pallid light, though it isn’t light, not yet. still in bed, you
turn to rise like some revenant, asking what time is it?
you remember – what is it you remember?
the feel of home, that moment of coming into your body,
its familiar ache and shift, its little cough of consciousness
resuming (Monday claims). i’m awake. i can’t quite see
your face assume its usual definition. your shoulder rises
like a hill i climb getting on my side of the bed to pad
to the sunroom, lift the blind on a spectral world. one early
dog racing across the park, its breath steaming up through
pallid light, though it isn’t light, not yet. still in bed, you
turn to rise like some revenant, asking what time is it?
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