It was

the midrib of the year, quavering bone 
dividing the rooms into before and after.
Or, history and who knows what comes 
next. The stoics argue that you should never 
allow the future to disturb you, for it will come 
to meet us, regardless. Or you'll run into it 
first, depending  on your willingness to receive 
without nostalgia. Morning light tints the walls
the same color as what leaks into the streets.
You swing your feet over the side of the bed
and they look for slippers, as if they had that 
small, separate autonomy. What does it mean
to live without asking, or expectation? You arms
slide into sleeves, lift a cup of water to your lips.