Potencies and powers
recede over the pines;
empty pale spaces where the sky
I fold one arm over the other,
my hands fall warm on either triceps.
I work the muscle fibers,
search for sore spots. It's my job.
Put your bare feet in my lap
and, absently, my thumbs
for deep aches
in between the metatarsals,
while my fingers
spread them open like a book.
Read this: the history
of our kind. Sapolsky says
if a baboon is unhappy, it is because
some other baboon
is making its life a misery.
We do not think hard enough.
We do not sit down, like Shakyamuni,
and say: “why suffering?”
And why we don't sit down is easy enough:
because we already know the answer:
because we don't care enough to stop
miserabling each other. Simple as that.
The hands of the last morning clouds
open to the wind, are blown away;
the blue folds into itself,
curdles. We have not changed.
keep up their long retreat.