In the partly human, partly fungal state
between sleeping and waking
he abandons the tangled sheets,
dismisses the drama that knotted them,
pivots to a shadowy perch at the edge
of the bed. He wants to flex his limbs,
perhaps fly, perhaps astonish.
His feet numb, stumps: they could not
run, can hardly walk; the carpeted planks
are too cold and mindful:

elbows on knees,
hands cup forehead like golf ball on tee.
If he were sitting barefoot at the summit
of a mountain or on a beach at water’s edge,
he could have no less intent than at this
muddled instant in which the universe presents
no answer nor any question.

Step aside: light a cigarette, figure it out.

He does not light a cigarette; perhaps that
is the problem: he has no partly human, partly
fungal ritual to fall back on, no template for
action; perhaps if he nibbles
his fingernails (or a little fungus ) he will find
the path on which to stumble for the rest
of the night. Uncompromising horizontal
daylight brings clarity

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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