Morning isn’t the beginning, the opening page —
The plot will have started far back from this minute;
The scene where eyes are blinded, lips estranged,
Strikes at random, and the hour in it.
That worthless bookmark, Death, is better ignored;
No need for a gnomon to mark the transition inside;
A passage’s light must be its own reward;
Who cares if the sun comes up when someone has died?
Grief is engrossed, so close to being bored.