When I think I want to be a kind of soul

released from my body of suffering

into the air between airs,

one who’s floating over a great river

beyond Time’s so-called beginnings

and endings, always in a constant state

of play, curiosity, and letting go

within a morning mist that’s hiding trout

that rise to the surface of their world

to swallow themselves, often risking

everything for a mayfly,

my consciousness sort of unfurling

and thinning as I near the collective

I came from without even thinking about it,

I again remember as a kid catching ants in

plastic, see-thru containers that, because

of the condensation that collected

on their insides, taught me not all things

are bound to evaporate into the vastness

of a flash like the one that sometimes

comes when you’re meditating and

is often accompanied by a popping,

that parallels thunder accompanying

lightning. Before returning to

the mouth of the great river of want,

where I’ll lay back the way I always do

in my favorite chair when no one,

not even me, is looking hard enough,

I’ll think about the fact that

I’m already everything I could ever want,

always this falling beyond and down

onto me.