I wake up with the intelligence of moss,
and not the brightest of mosses at that.
I study the stitching of the bedsheets
with a drowsy version of awe. I notice
the shifting patterns of lint held
in the sunlight. Only minutes away
from the seamlessness of sleep
and already there’s an autumn chill,
a tangle of shadows, a passel of dying
leaves at the windowpane. I’m un-
prepared for the profusion of things,
each with its own little spirit, its own
little spiel. The boundary between sloth
and pointless attention to detail
grows murky. A pencil rests easily
on a sill. A book stifles a cough.
A geranium pauses for emphasis.
The longer I’m awake, the more
they arrive, the separate things,
the particulars, with their hats
in their hands like mendicants,
like babies on the doorstep,
like penniless relatives
with stories so farflung and desolate
I’d need a heart of stone
not to listen.
Max Garland is the author of The Word We Used for It, winner of the 2017-18 Brittingham Prize. His previous books include The Postal Confessions. Originally from Kentucky, he is professor emeritus at UW-Eau Claire, a former Writer in Residence for the city of Eau Claire, and the former Poet Laureate of Wisconsin. More of his works can be found here.