You know a fine day when it happens. For example the trill
of that tentative squint on an unusually bright morning,
when you suddenly remember the window shutters. Done for.
Also, at the local supermarket, trying to straighten out
the list, you seem like a regular guy. Nothing fancy
but the need to figure out which onions—size, skin,
whatnot. And you forego the memory of the octogenarian
you saw on television, wearing skimpy clothing and doing
cartwheels, like there’s a lot to hope for suddenly, like
you’re learning anew the sections of a small room,
and the round bulbs on the kitchen table,
little light left, the night coming.