This is the morning of the year

That the sun at somewhat past eight,

Shining in the front window, reaches

Through a room and hall and a room

To put the palm of its hand on a wall.

But that is not it.

As I came downstairs a glass shelf

On the windowsill showed an airplane

Crossing the reflected sky overhead.

A significant moment.

That might be some of it.

The arm of the chair had just shoved

Something under the seat, and waited

For me to go, to take it out again.

I felt stubborn, and stayed there.

But it had nothing to lose by waiting,

And I everything, and was not patient.

Anyway, that was not it.

Why do I get mornings like this one?

I'm tight as a window-shade spring.

I saw a man in the mirror listening,

And guessed it was myself. I tore up

Some old tickets and address-lists ;

Found a pen that wasn't there yesterday.

Someone has been moving things around.

But that is not it.

When the sky clanged and the house fell,

I thought, This is it. I knew it would.

But it was a car door and water pipes.

It was very quiet then. I was quiet.

Then I realized it was far, far away,

But happening now, to someone I know.

Not something terrible, hut connected,

Some thought I picked up and laid down.

Let it stay there. I am not a telephone.

It will be in tomorrow's newspapers.

Or I'll get a letter.

That is what it is.