Hard to do, not hard to tell

At five-thirty in the morn­ing, the busses start to leave
the sta­tion down the street, one a minute–
I might as well get up. My sleep was dis­turbed–
I slept curled up, tensed up, pro­tec­tive,
and now I am sore on wak­ing from the effort.

Right before I woke, I had a dream about being sick
and being in the hos­pi­tal, and being dis­charged.
The whole time I was there I was check­ing
my email and wor­ry­ing about work.
I relapsed, and had to go back after leaving.

It’s not hard to tell what my body and brain
are telling me, send­ing me, cramp­ing me.
But turn­ing know­ing into doing, and doing
into accep­tance, into find­ing a new place,
a new way, a new life? That’s the hard part.