still procrastinating

While trying to piece together an exam for my literature students tomorrow I came across this poem by Wallace Stevens and I feel like he wrote it about me sitting here just exactly as I am, even though it's a Monday night. (oh and "peignoir" is like robe)

Sunday Morning

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,

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And in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings