Hiram Reports From His Adventure Poem by Hans Ostrom

In dark vegetation I couldn't see
my body or hear thoughts. Fevers
rotted memory. Maggots flourished
and founded a parliament.

I hung in delirium, a sack
of neural bits and pieces. Birds in
endless green hooted, screamed.
I was transported to a desert that

cooked off confusion, revealing
basic elements of who allegedly
I'd been. My body became obvious
once more, eating dry food and

drinking wet water. I worked
in a factory of noon—my job to attach
objects to their shadows. Memories
returned, walking like scattered

soldiers returning across sand,
descending from red rim-rock,
shedding uniforms, looking for
lovers and work.