Right lobe and left
hold what a hand cannot grasp,
corpus callosum a corridor,
the entry hall of words.
Spider webs of neurons crowd
the closed closet of the skull,
and I am rebuilt by sleep until 
shift workers in umber uniforms 
murmur and I blink at dawn.

My mind a crew in yellow
dance me awake, not to worship 
or to scheme, but to make
the best uses of axon, synapse
                                  and dendrite.
To think about thinking, a dizzy pirouette
sets my senses free and--
what happens? Everything!