Ah well, another day, I heard one woman say.
It was the Festval’s second, middle day. Who
Knows what people mean when they shrug
That way? They could be of the “it goes on”
Type, or maybe of the “it is what it is” type.
In any case, a day combines, any day, both
The proof of continuation, as in “here we still
Are, yet another day,” and the greater proof
Of change, as every day, no matter how
Familiar feeling, no matter how similar, is
Never actually the same as, never yesterday.
Which was it she felt more when she sighed?
The fact we can feel a bit of both is why we
Count the days. Another band got up to play.
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