The Book of Weston

Something emerges onto the upstairs landing,

fully lucid, mind inside mind,

inhabiting itself. It must assert

control of this place. It must fly.

At the top of the stairs it raises itself

onto the balls of these feet and lifts

these arms, inhales, and these toes

leave the carpet.

Tensing maintains upward motion.

This body floats

silent over the foyer and watches

the moonlit street outside

the round bay window of memory.

Bliss for a moment, but glancing down,

the will rebels seeing empty air

beneath these feet and loses

concentration and drops, then flexes

and floats higher until this head

bumps the ceiling, but slowly

something surrenders, exhales and sinks

until false soles kiss cold hardwood

and awareness blooms into morning.