by Peter Cooley
Morning, have I the will to start again?
As the sun begins, some pre-dawns, bored or tired,
some morning like today scattering gold
on even the chickweed in my yard,
the crabgrass and the winter dandelion
I’ll need to pull up when I have a second—
Today these are the floor tiles of a pharaoh,
the first steps through his pyramid of gold.
Today even the weeds surprise themselves
by their reckless transformations before noon.
How can I not participate, even Mondaying,
the dreary week ahead of my invention,
the February fingers about my throat
mine own, my expulsion from eden my lower case?
Did the light ask to be born that day, called forth
from the void where it could sleep, formless
unnamed and out of time, and take on shape
whenever it touched down? Did half the universe dare ask
why me? when it was divided from the dark?
Peter Cooley’s tenth book of poems World Without Finishing was released in February 2018 from Carnegie Mellon. Among many other publications, his poetry has appeared in Poetry, The New Yorker, The Pushcart Prize anthology, and three editions of the Best American Poetry series.