Saturday morning,
mellow and predictable,
pale gold light shreds
in the half-shut blinds,
ceiling fan still pulverizing
last night's dreams into bits
which settle back like a
thick static on my
tongue and my chest.
Desperate not to move,
not to risk losing
the balance of my inclination
on this delicate tangent line
to wholeness's floozy ellipse.
Whatever that distant rhythm
of being, whatever life
might still be left outside
the walls of this bedroom might
stand in a minute more
for the Eden I knew
and know I can't return to.
