Each morning, the poet says, is a new shirt
We pick it up on waking, a self-woven shirt.
Shirts are long and boring, as we stitch them
All the same, the same stuff we are wearing
Rather outsized to what we have worn earlier
 Since we are no shirt makers to new bodies.

Our cleavages remain  same under our shirt.
We are man and woman  on  sofa watching
 Our television through  the same ocular eyes
And read our newspaper over the same nose
Of thick-rimmed spectacles sliding to leave
Space for  eyes to pass over things of ugly sight
Sniffing nose up to same  disagreeable smells.

Kierkegard's  shirt is  an infinite resignation
 To an underlying mystery or an absurdity.
 We wear ours in the  morning on old bodies
 As if we have stitched it ourselves all day.
 We have shirts but no bodies over  bones.


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