Thinkable

Lately when you wake

your head feels large

and ponderous, inhabited

by wandering vicinities of mind –

all grinding, thick and slow –

comprised of catalytic

memories which once

were quick and fostered flow

but now in aggregate

bog down to sludge: inaction

massing up out of dim grudge

and infelicitous distraction

which describe the whole

of what you find your past is

when you wake. Yet there’s

a break: a kind of dawn comes

not to take you from the mud

but to inveigle you to look

up from it -- understand

there’s no below without above.

You reasonably do not seize

a last great curing hope

in this, but the abyss

diminishes by half.

It’s thinkable to laugh.

.