THE STORY OF A DAY

1.

I was awakened this morning as usual

by the narrow bars of light coming through the blinds

so that my first thought was that the nature of light

was incompleteness—

I pictured the light as it existed before the blinds stopped it—

how thwarted it must be, like a mind

dulled by too many drugs.

2.

I soon found myself

at my narrow table; to my right,

the remains of a small meal.

Language was filling my head, wild exhilaration

alternated with profound despair—

But if the essence of time is change,

how can anything become nothing?

This was the question I asked myself.

3.

Long into the night I sat brooding at my table

until my head was so heavy and empty

I was compelled to lie down.

But I did not lie down. Instead, I rested my head on my arms

which I had crossed in front of me on the bare wood.

Like a fledgling in a nest, my head

lay on my arms.

It was the dry season.

I heard the clock tolling, three, then four—

I began at this point to pace the room

and shortly afterward the streets outside

whose turns and windings were familiar to me

from nights like this. Around and around I walked,

instinctively imitating the hands of the clock.

My shoes, when I looked down, were covered with dust.

By now the moon and stars had faded.

But the clock was still glowing in the church tower—

4.

Thus I returned home.

I stood a long time

on the stoop where the stairs ended,

refusing to unlock the door.

The sun was rising.

The air had become heavy,

not because it had greater substance

but because there was nothing left to breathe.

I closed my eyes.

I was torn between a structure of oppositions

and a narrative structure—

5.

The room was as I left it.

There was the bed in the corner.

There was the table under the window.

There was the light battering itself against the window

until I raised the blinds

at which point it was redistributed

as flickering among the shade trees.