there is the inevitable resurfacing.
you're out of paper towels
or o.j. or something that begs for a trip
to the grocery store, and just like that,
in the moments in takes to park,
you're out of your lolling reverie.
what you notice,
after the hibernation
the one that's kept you away
from keyboard and compass,
from rigor or writing,
what you notice is how
not great you look, surprisingly,
pinched at the eyes, a little pale,
a little doughy, droopy, unspectacular.
you attempt a minor dazzle at a party
you buy a regrettable pair of shoes,
wear jeans that feel alarmingly tight
and find yourself staring at a distance
invsible to others, so that you look,
rather than pensive and intelligent,
actually quite lost.
you should have gentled yourself out of it,
coaxed one foot forward at a time.
there was no rush, really, even if
the coffee that morning screamed for milk
you didn't have.
it would have been alright
to be a little less vicious with yourself.
you'd been so careful going under,
ducking away from traffic and tedium.
it had been so easy to slide off the path,
undo your buttons, and release.
after hiberation the world
is never as wide and soft
as you expect,
and you are still just as tender and wanting
as you'd left it.