Upon Waking, 3 AM

You think you know so much about your self
but you only know your thoughts
about it — your emotions,
your rages, your boil of soiled
lusts, your just-before-sleep plans
on what you plan to say and do
when you wake up;
meanwhile, your feet ache, independently
of your mind; your hands tingle separately
from your feet; your hair — pardon, your scalp —
itches right there, behind your left ear; your eyes
glaze over, crusted with tears and goo;
you don’t know anything. You are
feeling without knowing.
Somewhere among these parts
there’s a stone,
a white stone the size of a small ruby
but white as in
alabaster, milk-fed marble;
the essence everyone knows
and no one can name.
It shakes its head.
But — what is it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T