In the manner of poems we always said that dawn was universal, strictly collective, a trembling presentiment.
Everyone must love or hate sunrise equally. (Here comes old Berkeley declaring light an operation of the mind. & so it has been…)
What I mean is daybreak, as we conceive it, is based on prior speculations.
There it was, twining itself with the river.
Among leaves we felt an unwearied immortality. One always did. I always did. & all we had to do was open our eyes.
Sunlight, like ourselves, has been reliable since the first morning of childhood.
Oh but daybreak sails cruel. One summer morning, early, it says you are an implacable exile as you walk beside a wall.
Another day it hits you with customary shards–hard vegetation, the rubbish of dreams.
Sunlight, despoiled, unbeautiful, hardly magical anymore. The trauma of adolescence. The private language of rusting things.
So it was always a life’s work to see in sunrise many terrains at once.
See how the sky flows into the broken houses.
Planet of the Blind 