Yet Another Lunch Sonnet

I looked down from my balcony, awake
But only just, my mind still lost in sleep.
Then something happened as I scanned the steep
And still-dark distance downward to the lake.
My bleary eyes gained focus; I could make
Out tiny details, like the sparks that leapt
From vendors’ carts, or lamplight in the deep
Park’s shadows, night construction crews on break.
Like these, a thousand other details streamed
Into my head with blinding clarity;
What caused this lucid lamp-light to be lit?
A thousand other mornings never seemed
To blaze as if my eyes just learned to see.
I was alone no longer;  that was it.

Another Lunch Sonnet

Just taught, or tried to teach, something in class -
The "Literary Present Tense", in fact;
The grammar term for how we often act
Like books’ events take place, not in the past,
But in a constant present time that lasts.
Reminds me of Yeats’ "Lapis", where Lear’s acts
Eternally, concurrently, refract
like mirrors that face each other, in a glass.
All art happens at once, and always now.
This strangely fits with thinking that I’ve done
While meditating recently at dawn
On how there’s just this moment, always, how
The past and future can’t be reached. No one
Can leave the present, which continues on.