August 1942

Philip Booth

That clear first morning after,
maybe turned sixteen, I
first stayed up all night

and woke from waking
to see the sun break open,
happening to the simple world:

there were people there,
who slept while I was waking,
and were waking while I woke.

I was where they were.
There were men waking to coffee
and lunch boxes, women

tending the coffee and making
lunches. They were me.
I was there, being young.

And being young, woken
by how the sun's old storms
tug men awake, I woke again:

back in the dark, the dark
yet ahead of the sun, where
I had been, and would be,

there were waves slowly breaking,
rollers lugging men to sleep,
on a transport lost at sea.