Underneath the overhead window, overlooking a chaotic city,
on cotton sheets,
gathering breath longingly like
soft blades of sawtooth grass in a woven basket,
I store them in this vessel, the size of a pea.
As humans we cannot truly feel the present moment,
as all sensations of the present have already been devoured by the past by the time our brains can reckon with them.
With each word that you read of this poem, another micro moment will have passed, and the seeds sewn by your consciousness will already be
setting to sprout.
But underneath the overhead window, my fingers circle the center of my sensation,
and my consciousness is caught beneath their pressure,
to their rhythm.
Outside a storm converges. I hear soft thunder,
the wet smell of rain, and the pinging of
I devour their energy between my legs,
surging into a complete connectedness
with the world
and with myself.
And although the present charges ahead, I’m carried now languidly with it: eyes closed, legs spread, breathing the world in deeply.