Late Summer, Early Morning, After Rain 

Running again, now against the current, 

past the terrible island where men 

gaze longingly into the white expanse.

The corner is always changing. Each day

subtle gradations and variations 

of wind, light, & tree & distance, of course,

& distance. One night in Mary’s attic

I was meditating, loosely, facing 

the window. I thought I saw one lover

taking the other in the living room but 

I didn’t, I was just a bad student;

impatient, base, & wanting the other 

more elusive thing—the shape

of wind. 	Too often I choose 

to not cultivate presence. “Resistance 

is really the grist for the mill,” Rita once 

told me. She was my father’s mentor & 

he thought she could teach me.	He thought 

I was like him,		 that she could 

understand. 		Waves of nausea pass 		

like desire.	 	I move down 

an incline,		 little gray bugs 

die instantly on my face and chest.