Storm, passing

All kinds of things are happening to me.

Skin’s becoming scaly, forehead a terrain of anthills,

and my feet are stiffening as though belonging to a corpse.

Hair’s falling out of course. And there’s my mind.

I try to read, but words swirl

in little whirlwinds on the page;

even when they’re behaving, I feel

I’m gazing at some complicated log of random numbers.

Enough of this I say aloud, take to the beach –

perhaps it’s distance my eyes are seeking.

But there I find fish tumbling from the sky,

myself face up in a clump of seaweed

foamy wavelets eddying about me.

Almost blinding,

the light is different from what I’m used to.

and I wonder if I’m dreaming,

back in the southern hemisphere,

if this sinking will have a rising too.

The next cat out the bag’s

a female, fifteen or so,

standing, mouth ajar,

saying nothing.

A mackerel on my belly, flapping.

I see her stare,

want to reach a hand, see if I can touch her

but suddenly she’s not there, and I come to,

still lying in damp sand like a heavy log.

There’s nothing for it but to roll over,

watch the water gouge

a groove where my body’s been.

Back home, I make a cup of tea.

The kettle boils. I lift  a green mug from a hook

pour, and squeeze a lemon in.

So far, so good. I wash pots and plates, utensils.

Stare out at laundry, ponder.

The light is dimming and a rush of heat comes over me.

A massive bank of thunderclouds controls the sky.

I put on my headphones, turn up the volume,

dance until my body feels fifteen.

Rain pounds against the window. I close the blinds.