Thursday, April 5, 2018

SUSPICIOUS

Around
noon, these stiller

days, I
see you lying

dubious
on the ground—

my nearest
enemy,

my dear
equanimous shadow.

Silent, ponderous, you
invite me:

sit right down, stretch out
the immediate

until it becomes
the indefinite.

Every breath, unspeakably
useless,

all alarms—
pure sound.

All my love—now
sticky,

contracts down
into—pity and attachment.

Every move
I no longer make

is practice;
every itch

I refuse to
scratch is

a preparation—
for death.

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