The day had not been fitted to itself,
Too timid, as if it had been written in
A passive voice. Ah, writers and teachers
Are so callously cruel about passive voice
And adverbs, as if good writing could be
Conjured up by merely observing their rules
To avoid them, as if it were a character flaw,
A sign of one’s own timidity, to use them,
However felicitously. This day had been
Like that. Not actually flawed in character
But allowing the rules to bend so that hours
Flowed more easily around it, missing it,
So that the day passed without touching,
Without matching the designated edges
Of itself. And then it was done. One mourns
The loss of an interval too cleverly a failure
To have ever been, by any writer, captured.
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