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.

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