Immunity Over Compass

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

an inquiry
of what is underneath

a moment meant
for just that