by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
I ought to —
what?
You know
I can't
but what is it I can't?
awakening
from sleep
I look about me
at the “land”
and think
and count the
nothings
on my list of things to do
one
one
one
one . . . oh, please,
brain, work
the bog I'm walking through
I stand
unsteady
feet unsure
but sure I'm going to fall
I'll spill the other way
if
I just lean against a wall
and so I sit
try not to get up
so I won't collapse
the one thing that I need
now
sleep
eludes me still
perhaps
if I collect —
but how would I
without going outdoors —
supplies
I numerated last night
what were they?
the cores
of my compartmentalized
now nebulous
yet solid needs
(not being able to remember
is like planting seeds
and looking back
at that sown field
and wondering
if bent
over the furrowed area
just what I dropped there)
sent
by You
to care for me
so I might have to figure less
and then not be confronted
by this empty-minded mess
is this
then
what senility
when it begins
is like
awakening in heavy traffic
seated on a bike
and having no idea
how I got there
or where I am
or where I'm going
staring
much less able than a lamb
I've tended
souls
who could do nothing
but lie still
eyes wide
and comprehending nothing
and aware that I can't hide
from what I am
whoever that is
Lover
be with me
and while this fog
perverts my purpose
Your face
I'll still see