Here

Something in the predawn wakes to cull, collect
shreds, threads and pulses of a soul – fresh-threshed
by dreams and sleep into a porous mesh – a fibrous
consciousness: a wonder that it coils into the semblance
of a sentient whole – which sets for yet another

coalescence of itself such concrete goals as: putting
feet to floor, amassing neural signals which conduce
to the assortment and cooperation of the body’s limbs
and core – in preparation for its getting up and turning
towards the bathroom door – and oh, whatever

strange innumerable more effects the efficacious
realignment of that fragile sense of agency we like to label
“me.” That we manage this amazing and courageous
feat each day is quite beyond what comprehension
I can bring its way – never mind that factor of it

which arrests: its built-in obsolescence. We’ll run down,
my dear: one day our shreds and threads and pulses
will no longer whoosh together into anything remotely
like this whirling sphere: we’ll disappear. For now,
however, somehow, we’re miraculously – thickly – here.

.