When I first wake,
If there’s any light at all in the room
My eyes play tricks on me
Grab on to any shapes and charge them with some kind of life
Sometimes as menacing as
The iron board draped with hoody becomes tall man in trench coat
Sometimes as innocuous as:
Wad of sneezed in toilet paper becomes
Frozen white cat
But, sometimes as lovely and chilling as
The rolled, white edge of the down blanket
Becomes your hand on my chest
None of these transformations were my idea
I didn’t conjure any of these visions
Or force them into place
They just appeared as pieces of a whole
And perhaps, in less than vivid light
In a less than lucid state
There’s a moment when all the things are real

Just as Schrödinger’s cat
Is both alive and dead in its box
So too are you
And gone

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