Inside each day there was a smaller day, and inside that
a smaller day, and each perfect, with a mad enemy,
kind wife, skeptical cat, resigned dog,
huge clouds passing in narrow windows,

then night which almost lasts,
pupil of the eye with which we stare,
in which we dissolve like breath in air,
call us back, only the breeze will answer,
a quickening, a palpitation, a name that stands for itself.