Posted by & filed under eggs past.

Harry Calhoun

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.