Sad. And it comes
tomorrow. Again, grey, the streaks
of work
shedding the stone
of the pavement, dissolving
with the idea
of singular endeavour. Herds, the
herds
of suffering intelligences
bunched,
and out of
hearing. Though the day
come to us
in waves,
sun, air, the beat
of the clock.
Though I stare at the radical
world,
wishing it would stand still.
Tell me,
and I gain at the telling.
Of the lie, and the waking
against the heavy breathing
of new light, dawn, shattering
the naive cluck
of feeling.
What is tomorrow
that it cannot come
today?
Valéry as Dictator
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