Knowing everything, he recognized nothing
in the objects around him.
When once he had written of hair like
long strands of black ink;
seen a door’s straight edge curve into a corner shadow;
heard a sharp whine lower its pitch through a blunt wall;
felt the buzz saw cold whipping breeze in January
find the seams of his clothes, and frost his skin –
his voice puckered and lost its liquid timbre.
He awoke from a long sleep
where the zenith stammered, and the cold sun
corrupted a dream of warmth; he believed
he’d found it all in a key that went beyond
sense and madness, but after three weeks
in a sullen hospital wing, discovered he knew nothing.