She won’t roll away & not watch me.
Y’see, I won’t seem to take another…
When I dream (or wake),
To take another breath before
The scene fades, before
Lights go up,
Then down to more of a zoom.
She waits in our bedroom for me to resume.
We went to go to a yoga class.
Where a barefooted, hair-pleated group leader;
Beautiful, and calmer than a
Merciful last coma,
She insisted that our deep breath is
The gist of all of it (within, & out).
We rearrange the short & tall of it.
The Gist to change the depth, see,
Of our sea of possibility.
When we inhale
We re-memorize our own gods.
We exhale our hell. barefoot. on a mat.
Whew. To that.
When I get to go to the Gulf of Mexico
I’ll try out the drink, 1st thing.
I’ll try not to think, when I try to let go
& sink, when I deadman’s float all day,
Into what I think of as a spiritual drift, in a way.
I’ll hold onto my own breath,