I woke this morning at 5:00, the only light a reflected streetlight getting a slice through the curtains, casting a meaningless hook on the far wall. I could give meaning to a hook shape, but when meaning is too easy it's like water, seen through, not really there.
Later, I found Andrew Sullivan linking to a Philip Larkin poem, "Aubade," that describes, in meticulous detail, the whole experience, a familiar experience for me as, I expect, for most thinking+feeling people. This is a poem you can recommend to your plumber, to your 10-year old child, even to your postman. Especially the postman.
It's here.
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