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.

Layers of colors
of leaves
of hills rolling
breathing
dancing in wind
and for a stretch
of time of light
it’s perfect
nameless
and I am happy
to be aimless
with the wind.

Two people move across the street,
walking together to work, briefcases in tow
but their feet and legs are moving
in a circle, as if they’ve got wheels.
A young girl is heading to the coffee shop
and she walks like she’s a triangle.
I think maybe I’m oval, but I’m not sure.
I watch and wait for a hexagon man,
with so many angles, he finds his way easily
despite a little icy dew.
I’m humming a diamond song
as the mailman stops by,
and I wonder if tomorrow will find
people shapes turn three-dimensional
or if we’ll all be trying to toe a line.

The truck rolls past, blaring music
as the quiet man inside sits very still.
A woman edges her car slowly
out of a parking lot seemingly intent
on escape despite her trappings.
Moving pictures, sleepy spirits.

Success is a ridiculous word
when measured against the business
of deciduous trees in autumn.

The afternoon is a shuddering breath
after a gutless morning
pushed mercy as far away as it could.

Prayers are rising amid the notifications
pulsing from devices everywhere,
making it a crowded atmosphere.
It’s like breathing in graffiti.