Jays, chipmunks and chainsaws before the sun reaches the end of the driveway. Cue the dogs who never seem to run out of things to say in the round. What have I chosen to learn in this suburban temple? Trust, perhaps.
Do you trust me?
The feeling of discarnate expansion wakes at 4 a.m., despite the boundaries I imagine for myself. Hints of total freedom quietly crash through the body's appeal for sleep. Who do I join at this hour? We embrace and I hear the whispers of undivided unity. The holy hour is not mine alone.
A later dawn. Which pockets will I slip my curling fingers into when fall arrives with such acuity? The proof is lacking, but I am trying to remain in summer. Yet as we swim and plant and the turn humid pages of heavy books, the signs of advance are there.
Do I trust myself?
Well, one thing I look forward to is soup on the stove, steaming up icy windows. Highway thoughts return and so does the chance to choose immunity over compass.
And yet . . .
a certain kiss
of outdoor lips
of what is underneath
a moment meant
for just that