Across the common across the retreat
the wind stirs the trees like a bonsai ocean
and, awake for third cycle of every five,
I inhale it through my ears so as not waste the sleep I’m missing.
I’m different now, and now.
The change comes so rapid I can barely maintain the understanding
that I’m actually only returning to the me
that’s been so long waiting for me to arrive,
as though an infant teacher stamping my degree.
Songs and sex seem to make more sense
of time than contemplation, and it’s all I can do
not to hum while I’m inside you.