the same attempt
to hone my attention,
as if breaths were
sharpened arrowheads I'd
fashioned out of flint—
little weapons
that existed
independently from me.
*
Suffering through
vinyasas on the lawn
increases one's
hunger to become
someone else,
which only makes it
harder to swallow
the arrogant swagger
of crows a little farther on—
they who pretend
to nothing
and thus have
never been uncertain.
*
True or False? Even
our sense of diminishment
ebbs.
"Even if
the soul exists,
what are the chances
it persists
outside the body?"
is a question
no one can
bring themselves to ask
once they've brushed
up against
a single spider's web.
