Perhaps I have meditation
all wrong, and it isn’t about
finding the off switch. The way
trees swaying in the wind
stay so firmly seated makes me
think I too need to delegate
all decision-making to mushrooms.
Collecting sunlight could be
my whole vocation; never mind
the masked vigilantes running riot
in my imagination. Not every trip
unfolds according to plan. But
I have acquired an apparatus
dearer to me than any pet
with which to concentrate the mind.
So sleek a device—plastic married
to metal. If only I could remember
how to turn it on.