meditation
Aug. 14, 2017the ethereal sounds again as i am crosslegged on the top bunk back leaned against the concrete wall painted white in the fifties, now an ivory cream. there is a bourdon in the back solid, firm, like the cheap mattress on which i am perched, freshman. and above it undulates a great many unplaceable sounds: a woman’s voice (not yours, though faint and trembling like when you first sang for me) not the wind but an echo of the wind and the sound i imagine stars make; and in the room, the sound of lake ice and fever. trying to meditate but really half-asleep never one for it before, but you brought a reality i couldn’t process in my endless processing, the spiraling that leads me wash my hands that leads me count the breaths count the lights in the rooms where i sit and scribble an A test but think only of what it is you’re feeling for him, in love with you and you with me and me with him and you with him and you with death and me with all of it.
