Calmness has conditions.
The saliva must be sweet.
The energy must run along the braided rope,
through knots and frays
until its unceremonious end

This is the path of mind
as I sit;
The eddy of steely blue water
in the wash basin;
The spit

What do we make of the holiness of enzymes?
Their ability to turn water into wine…

It takes a gentle jolt,
like a flash of heat lightning,
to quiet the hiss of neurons
and hormones
and commence a stillness

Today, I want to be the ochre
of pine needle decay.
An effortless transition from here to there,
lest I forget the temporal stain of afternoon

In the steely blue water,
I see every possible version of myself
refracted like a crystal. One million
eyeballs, haunting and hopeful

Turns out, I am waiting for Sunday
to reckon with the enzymes within.
I am waiting for a catalysis of spit
to turn my grief into something
sweeter