Struggling up from muffled night
was hard enough.
What would it be to rummage in the dark
for sweaters, pants, socks
tie shoes
And walk out into the darkness of
Buffeting rain and hidden, blurry moon.
Only the knowledge that
halfway up the hill
Ego would awake,
Pushing back layers of
gauzy film
Taking over the steering
and lighting mitochondria with
the sound of a pilot light
clicking on.
Only then
do the particles align
with the known world
after flying around forever
over plains of waving grass.
Eagle screeches penetrate
Through long tunnels
to the electric networks of neural tendrils.
Dire thoughts ooze from
houses where glowing early lights
transmit poisons soaked up by days of boredom
and dreams of endless black freight trains
blow off
in rushing gusts.