There’s a pile of pillows and blankets
on the floor by the sofa.
The cup of tea is almost empty.
Leaves are blowing across the yard
as the sky seems to be trying out
different colors as night closes in.
The book sits on my lap
as I daydream for long Sunday minutes.
Fields, castles, thunderstorms, flowers,
all spin together, an intricate nonsense,
a place I can disappear to whenever,
as I spin, with no particular direction.
I remember things, some of which
have actually happened, and I can see
a lot of what could be, as if I can open
my curled-up hands and a dream
will fall out, complete and satisfying.

I’ve charted our paths
as best as I can
over years and mountains,
with few gaps of any importance.
Wincing at lies and stumbles,
laughing at foibles,
I don’t see Me or You but an Us
forming like a new galaxy.

Our stars have been dancing
a long time on their own
and somehow time has passed
in fluctuating persistence.

I have been playing with numbers
hoping it all adds up
to a map we can call home
though I know it may be
as transient as the best dessert,
sweet and quickly devoured.

I’ve not been able to hold onto time lately
which is a double/edged thing;
there’s no tight-squeezing-breathlessness
but there’s no grounding either,

so I feel ready to spark with the night
and ride air currents during the day,
sort of dangerously comfortable
loving with abandon.

What that means in the real world
is I walk in less of a hurry and move
with the comfort of a screen door
allowing in the summer breeze.

My use of metaphor has not improved
but I am so alive to the possibility
my skin will finally fit like tree bark
and that I can be happy letting go.

Most mornings, I make a sandwich
and most days, it falls apart a little
in its container in my lunch bag.
My lunch involves scooping the innards
and tucking them into my mouth.
I don’t mind because it’s just me, after all.
But when I make a sandwich for someone,
I take more care. Things don’t fall apart.

I thought pitas would help- they’re
bread containers themselves but no,
my turkey peeks out and
my provolone unrolls outside the pocket.
I have to laugh, at my sandwich-making,
about how I’m settling for myself,
even how I notice something so stupid.

A couple of weeks ago, I splurged for
Italian rolls and they held my stuff together.
But it felt like a luxury, and not penance
and that sort of shocks me, seeing as
I’m a recovering Catholic and thought
I had left the guilt of being born behind.

I think of mindfulness as I eat my sandwich.
I think about not feeling worthy.
I think I may need some mayo next time.