If the easing-in
isn't simplicity itself, the body stops. No hope
of squeezing between two rose petals now.
Still, the going's not about
movement, but focus.
Of the wind's many roads, choose one. Any one.
Your destination isn't where
the meaning is.
Under your toenails is.
No trip really ends.
It merely seems to end because
we obsessively divide it into parts.
Again, two rose petals flutter in the wind.
Pass between them, body-surfing a wave of photons.
Like the struggle for justice, the ride never stops.
Sooner or later, a biopsy report.
Walk through the door.
The doctor sits on a stool, everything's clear.
AC fan noise. Sky through window.
Forever or never ever. Which?
One hello, then another. So many sounds.