How long have I been here?
Have I been here before? Presently,
I find the distinction itself
confusing—the ontological trick
between coming and going.
I attempt zen—to sit noiseless and still,
indistinct as the wallpaper.
But my mind will not relax;
it waxes, as a moon does, to engulf
in blue scorn, this slim pretense of a room.
Yet for all of this righteous aggression,
I do not know (and cannot fathom)
why each minute slips past me
as slowly as an open
parachute descending,
nor would I even begin to suspect
the hostile nature
of the territory below, to which
each precious one of them is now
prayerlessly falling.
