A way, a course, a scene,
And you get tired of it.
You get used to the light.
It looks just like it does,
You think to your half self,
You know, the half that looks
Back from a pane of glass
And makes you start. That half.
And then it’s not the thing
You thought you knew—it was
A new thing a while now.
That old, warm sun is new,
Not so warm, not too warm,
And that old wall’s so gold.
