you felt yourself going,
which might describe life.
or death. a wobble & brain-light
switched off. started to crouch,
hoping to . . .
then . . . ? you woke
slowly, with such calm,
like dawn in fog,
into a mild dream,
a viscous stream-creek.
imagined you were
in bed--no: a table leg,
cords of some kind. so,
you got up: a fiction.
woke again.
cold ceramic under your
neck. will, a boss,
ordered you to get
up. wide-stanced, you
lurched toward a factual
bed, found it, lay down.
slept, woke to a person
telling you, "your forehead's
bleeding." you wanted
some blood to trickle
in your mouth--a child's
thought chugging
by in awareness
like a slow catfish in
a warm honey pond. a
chat ensued. and
old technology--
blood pressure cuff,
flashlight in eyes. fingers
on wrist to receive telegraph
message. a tuning in to your
heartbeat as if it were
espionage radio. blood
cleaned away, gauze
like a dry loveless kiss.
a diagnosis of low blood
pressure, a kind of bad
weather, and dehydration,
a kind of bad climate. water.
back to sleep, no dreams
allowed. fainting, what a thing.
hans ostrom 2022
