Saturday, December 24
AUBADE ON THE 8TH FLOOR OF ST. LUKE'S
The hoopla of the morning sun interrupts
a man’s morbidity, doesn’t it?
—It has no capacity
to instruct us, whose hearts grow
irregular.
What’s inside my father doesn’t glow;
it oxidizes. The young swoon
at times, and, at times, winter-scented rain
takes the stage.
Sometimes, though, breathtaking
arrives too literally, or late.
The sun, worrisome
in elongated splendor.
—I never asked for beauty.
What it wants from me I’ll be damned
if I know. (J. Estanislao Lopez)