The morning sinks into sponge.
The coffee sponge that I am,
I go for a third cup.
Smoke curls the air
but I have nothing to smoke.
The distant nearby
hum of whirring machinery
keeps me in good company.
Cars on the road shimmer with doppler,
which sounds transcendent at the moment.
Thoughts are sticky and hang together
like a room full of flypaper
with no open space for new flies.
Sit within myself,
that’s what the dream monk told me to do.
I remember now, even though I knew it all along.
-this work will soon appear in an unnamed poetry anthology