At first
it isn’t so bad —
a taste of ecstasy, the world
covered in honey. Even snails scrawl
the names of buddhas with
their silvery
trails.
But then,
too much. Pears become
unbearable, wet white flesh so tender
one could perish contemplating
the first taste.
Meditation
becomes oddly redundant,
attention now like water, absorbed in tree root,
plumbing; even fire hydrants with their red
stubby arms become mandalas, and,
worse, the police siren revving its
wail behind my slow-moving
car sounds like a
mantra.
Even my
wife’s complaints about me
finally sound true. I just bow.
Kiss her slender hands.
Carry the garbage
outside, but,
damn! The
moon!