Later on, besides civic grief, he also began falling into champagne… -Dostoevsky

Morning will buckle 
its marine layer,
its predictable cloud belt.
You’ll try to sidle up to words,
barefoot and in pajamas.
Listening to Bach, you’ll believe
everything the cello says 
about regret. You’ll read the news
and adorn yourself with civic grief,
those tattered garlands. 
Chances are good the cosmic gears
will grind morning into afternoon
before you notice. Some sun 
might just break the skin of fog.
Your lover will come home. 
You’ll roast a chicken and forget 
to be sad. The night will offer 
its wine-flavored promises.