In dark vegetation I couldn’t see
my body or hear thoughts. Fevers
rotted memory. Maggots flourished,
established a parliament.
I hung in delirium, a sack
of neural bits and pieces. Birds in
endless green hooted and screamed.
I was transported to a desert that
cooked off confusion, revealing
basic elements of who apparently
I’d been. My body became obvious
once more, eating dry food and
drinking wet water. I worked
in the factory of noon—my job to attach
objects to their shadows. Memories
returned, walking like scattered
soldiers returning across sand,
descending from red rim-rock,
shedding uniforms, looking for
lovers and work.
Hans Ostrom, 2012