tempering demons

Sometimes I can't remember who I am. Sometimes morning places strange unfamiliar floor beneath — cool wood teasing groggy feet with tales and secrets I no longer understand. Planks in language I once knew but have now forgotten. The lists in front of me mock my hope with hidden meanings — lines between the lines — making work to sort the simple one thing then the next. Demons dance in folly sunbeams needing extra blink to persevere their giggling from my ears.

Thank goodness for birds.