I Wake Up with Bumps

all over my legs.
They don’t hurt or itch

but are very ugly.
I can think of nothing
but my ruined legs.

Shostakovich
would “quote” himself,
mockingly—

no way to know
which parts were
the real S.

When I can’t sleep
I try to imagine
impossible things,

to force myself
into a dream. The mind
keeps slipping back

into simplicity, memory—
not consciousness, just memory
in real time.