August 1942

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.