two days
What are days
but templates for breath?
An unfogged mirror,
garments still wrapped in packaging.
They lean on patient elbows,
time and time and time.
Days, roof of the inevitable.
Where can we live in but days?
Alas, the safety of a question
sends the priest and his doctor,
two fluttering robes
through the fields,
clawing their way into
what remains
of the day.
—- original: "days" by philip larkin
What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.