To wake up is weird.
A clone of yourself,
you don’t know where
you went, when you weren’t here.
It looks like nowhere.
The night’s storm of memories,
hex of dreams, has lifted.
A shower rinses you clean
again—good to go
on to the next night of memories, dreams.
Their interventions.
Moving on is more and more
like trying to reach an invented
somewhere you’ve already been.
To be there better than before.
You rush to catch your only bus
wishing you could enter the blue
day like a vast meterological
disturbance. But you do not pass
through life, it passes through you
the way the night passed
through on its way to who
knows where. And though it looks
like it has just come around,
that sun was already there.