on the toilet

and my quite mind and morning eyes taking note of my languid arm

lying there across my thighs

it is dead and grotesque 

a freakish arm of a famine victim in a photograph in a far away land

it cannot be of my body

i do not feel it there

with its long, light- black hairs

patterned, sweeped in the same direction like grass on a hillside after a rain

and some white residue like salt stains on winter sidewalks

and the grayish looking rises that hint of the mess all below, inside

but it's the length, the proportions

it's too long, like a section was spliced in

i wipe myself and flush the toilet

and my mind gets sharper

as it will as i awake further

and go have a day