It had been one of those nights,
but still, the stairs were unexpected.
The bug, formerly known as Gregor Samsa,
scuttled to the eroded edge of a step
bleached by white-hot light,
and he considered the view,
the ascent, the blue-dark, tree-veined
moodscape that awaited him,
and decided to remain perfectly still.
He’d play dead, stretch the hours,
do his best to forget his name and purpose,
while waiting for a new strange dream to overtake him
or at least dissolve the claim to his bones.