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At dawn they start again, the early birds,
as if they’d left some bitter things unsaid
the day before. The sharp notes rise in thirds.
I wake up knowing that I’ll soon be dead,
and that’s no worse than justice, as is just.
The kindest words are almost never meant.
Most fond endearments fill us with disgust.
To lie is sometimes all too eloquent;
but, as I stumble toward that unknown date,
even the lies may be inadequate.
AP
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Browse back issues of The Atlantic that have appeared on the Web. From September 1995 to the present, the archive is essentially complete, with the exception of a few articles, the online rights to which are held exclusively by the authors.
See All Back Issues: September 1995
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February 13: Political Emotionalists and Neurotics; Mysteries of Providence
Carla Bruni to Represent the Working Class
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