It’s Probably Not Good to Meditate on a Moving Vehicle

To find one dream I left behind the body

And hovered up daintily

Up above colonies of puddles, slippery and cold.

Unclear, complete in grime

Never a fashionable picture to have told.

So it wished to retreat, the soul

No! A wicked beast swerved under its own fury by the soul’s feet

And claws the air where it hangs fearfully,

And screeches as its dark eyes burn.

A creature like what hunger and defeat anticipates,

Seeking more of the host’s flesh

But it glares up at it, sees no flesh to eat

At first discontent—now it grins.

Sometime later it freezes until

Snap!

We’re back on the bus, belching and boiling.