well-worn
objects in space

stop trying to see them!
it's dark.
and you're not here.
and you have no face.
or hands.

still you know their smoothness,
their shining sides
and rough patches,
set as they are,
constellations,
pegs in the night
with which mind is looming identity thru
to weave the hammock
that holds you

like waking from
sleep, sweet
and dripping with
dreams
you find those things
so specifically placed
and memory serves
a scented something you lost
in the fog

are these my hands?
is this my face?

who said that?