Manhattan Transfer

Recently, I was thinking
of circadian rhythms:
something in the words
 
brought up memories, or  
another misunderstanding,
of which neither
 
was, especially, relevant—
Outside the greyhound
bus window, that morning,
 
as passengers fought off
their dreamless sleep,
nothing seemed to have
 
changed, since the war:
beside weathering coats
of housepaint, that we
 
consistently passed by,
in what de Kooning termed
the rosy-fingered dawn—
 
Yet soon, our broad acres  
became escapements
written in glacial retreat,
 
until, even these, were
filtered by condensation,
as if foreshadowing  
 
the white, surgical linen
and sudden obscurity
isolate from all slumber.