by Brad Leithauser

You have your one word, which fills you to brimming.
It’s what’s first to be done on waking,
Often the last at day-dimming:
Lunge out an arm fiercely,
As though your heart were breaking,
Stab a finger at some stray illumination —
Lamp, mirror, distant dinner candle —
And make your piercing identification,

“‘ight! ‘ight! ‘ight!”
Littlest digit, you’ve got the world by the handle.
Things must open for you, you take on height,
Your sole sound in time reveal itself
As might, too, and flight. And fright.
Some will be gone. But you will come right.