hold out your fists as if holding a steering wheel,
that's habit.
now turn over your hands, open your palms,
as if receiving a pile of linens for the bed you'll sleep in,
that's nirvana.
that's what the straight spined woman said,
and if I trust her calm smile, I'll believe it.
If breath constructs balanced awareness,
why is beauty all muddled and skipping, both
during the inhale and the out?
I singe the leaves when I enlighten the plant.
I wrestle with the same problem of the silly apple,
over and over and over again, until I find myself
eating the concept.
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