The Poet Has a Nightmare After Reading a Book on Physics and Cosmology

Have pity for this day
Born of no other.
There is none like it.
Sister it has not, no, and no brother.

Have pity for this day,
This swift light from the sky.
Fallen through earth like thought,
It rests not long enough to die.

Outruns God's memory--
Yet we call after.
Lonely as lovers are we,
Dafter than disaster.

There is no trace,
No, not a gray leaf,
Not a small stone.
Does this day grieve? Are we its grief?

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