Love. Waking after midnight you look in the hallway mirror
and your beard is growing. Death pumps through somebody else’s veins.
Ears sprout from your face like weeds, here’s a nose
and eyes and the odd red lips, which speak this
for the silent, unseen brain.
Nobody else sees this, hears it, the hidden information
personal, private, yet not dysfunctional.
A rat or a spider
or the end of you
runs past you in the hall.
And you are not afraid.
Look in the mirror and smile.
This is what waking should be.