how does the dawn happen? a poet asks
seriously, as well as I can tell
I think, but we have explained all that
meaning physicists have, and
pretending for a moment that
all those years of studying physics
gives me some claim on them today
I think of sun and earth, rotation
and geometry, refraction, color
but the poet answers himself and
it is none of these, something almost
medieval instead, and I stare
trying to imagine some universe
in which orange dances on tiptoes
just out of sight, waiting for the call
from some director hired for this dawn
gold popping up next, then red
and so on, and am amazed that anyone
still thinks like that in this late year
then frown and wonder if it is a metaphor
and if so, for what, ignorance, I guess
but no, ignorance surrounds us like a fog
and never dawns, as well as I can tell
so I am left with a poet and a dawn and
a serious lack of science and think,
it isn't dawn he means, it's sunset
and what follows isn't night but
the sadder darkness of the mind
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