brighter afternoons, I
catch you sprawling
on the ground—
my closest dubious
interlocutor;
my maddeningly
equanimous shadow.
Silent, sable, smooth
as sand, you
ponderously
invite me
to lie right down,
stretch out the now
until it grows
indefinite.
But when I try
to imitate
your stealth and
sleekness, and your length,
all of my passion
and acceptance contract
toward pity
and attachment.
In stillness, and prostrate
before your mirage,
each step I don't take
is now a practice;
every sound I
don't hear,
every itch
I don't scratch,
an homage
to your blackness.
