Upon Waking
by Denis Johnson

At the far edge of Earth, night
is going away. another
poem begins. slumped over

the typewriter I must get this
exactly, I want to make it
clear this morning that your

face, as it opens
from it's shadow, is more
perfect than yesterday; and

that the light, as it
hesitates over the approach
of your smile, has given this

aching bed more than warmth,
more than poems; someway

a generous rose, or a a very
delicate arrangement of sounds,
has come to peace in this new room