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
sometimes.
