Wing or anchor,
the morning does not know
if it would rather sink or fly.
What is really at stake in a morning?
Just one more drop in an infinite ocean of time.
What really could happen of consequence?
A bomb might fall. The earth
might quake, a child might run
to the edge of a shore and know herself as everything.
But that is only the morning,
and by afternoon
it is old news.
Wing or anchor, sink or fly,
the morning goes on like this forever.
It is always morning, morning never quite
making up its mind.