“. . . yet they both reached at once

for the present
and when their hands met

they laughed”

(W. S. Merwin)*

Again the morning
its demarcation

from the night
its thin blade

drawn in the sand
mixed metaphor

line dividing
nighttime and daytime

sufficient with
its own evil

its present
meaning the calumny

of divisiveness
I and Thou

but also a gift
still here

fingers unfolding
around the sword’s hilt

letting it fall
soft as breath

slipping from our lungs
like laughter

that good infection
filling each of our cups

to the brim
and above the brim

spilling over . . .

*Merwin, W. S. “The Present.” Garden Time, Copper Canyon Press, 2016, p. 69.