Waking Up

What else fell when the shears snapped

around the flower stem?

In the sheets, the smell of loss lingers

medicinal and sharp,

as the antiseptic on a cut.

This must be what an addict feels

under his tongue, his fingernails-

no detour, nothing to chew on.

Everything is different now.

With the curtains closed, I can't tell

the morning from the night, the ocean

from an empty shell.

A whole spring and summer in this cubicle-

like a winter coat in a closet!

To my own flesh, then, I'm a revenant-

or is this someone else's dream

that I've stumbled into, the way a drunk

enters the wrong house in the dark?

If I could, I'd roll over

into the cooler place in bed.

Or should I pretend it's home-the room

inside the mirror on the wall

where everything is backward, where

I'm a distant rumor of myself?

Tubes, like parasitic vines, dangle

from my mouth and limbs.

They're trying to win me over.