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.