Some mornings I think I know what the world is
and write weak words on soft paper,
passing it off as some sort of vision
after hours of fretting and fiddling,
steeled against irrelevancy.
Some mornings I know nothing
and stand in the fog like a child
baffled by people, what is and what isn't,
the light and the shade and no one to ask,
dewstruck and taking it in.
—after Adam Zagajewski's "My Favorite Poets"
