It’s easy to pretend
that we don’t love

the world.
But then there is

your freckled skin. Then:
your back’s faint

lattice-work of bones.
I’m not saying this

makes up for suffering,
or trying to pretend

that each day’s little ladder
of sunlight, creeping

across the bed at dawn,
somehow redeems it

for the thousand ways
in which we’ll be forsaken.

Maybe, sweet sleeper,
breathing next to me

as I scratch and scrawl
these endless notes,

I’m not saying anything
but what the sparrows out

our window sing,
high in their rotten oak.

Patrick Phillips is the author of two collections of poetry: Chattahoochee (2004) and Boy (2008). He has received support from the NEA, the Fulbright Commission, and the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, and was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship for 2010.
tags: Poetry & Fiction   
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2 Responses to Aubade

  1. michael May 31, 2014 at 8:07 am

    beautiful view thank you

  2. john balawejder December 12, 2014 at 3:17 pm

    simple is usually the best..this is simple

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