I know a woman with a dusty attic
of a mind. She picks apart her past.
It’s like she carries Freud’s couch
with her wherever she goes,
and she is best described as
that moment when dawn is lost.
When doors go shutting.
When pigeons bubble sounds.
And I am her bag of spare parts.
I dream between 4 and 6am.
It is a madness, an undertow
of a threshing machine.
It separates me from the chaff,
and on wakefulness I am grist.
I am silver between the birches.
So I breathe in deeply, and hold it,
lean over, and pull on my socks.
This never used to be such an effort.
Last year this body was perfectly
serviceable, and my dreams myopic.