Fraying but not hating every minute –
withdrawal-addled, dissipating nimbus
of cotton-wool with spastic clawing – can it
be that these delapidated timbers
have weathered enough foulness, and are creaking
back now into their soundness-after-rumpus?
I try not to look down. Albeit on waking
there is accustomed fellness, it is finite.
May make it out. Am fraying but not freaking.