It is quite true to say
that everything is measured by the day.
The day has that sense of completeness,
of completion, the diurnal cycle
of sunrise to sunset enacted
by the heavens’ mightiest light; to leave us
a legacy of literary days.
The day will come, we say, or
the day is here. We speak of
a day of remembrance; of a day of
judgment, a day of
downfall and a day of renewal.
That every day is such a day, at dawn
as light that curves in a path
to darkness, end; and those caught up in this cycle
inhabit the earth, though their day be
each or literary; though they be struggling by
the hour of each day, migrants up against
a fence to freedom, their day is here.