I do my meditation here, much to the chagrin
of my Mahayana friend. It is blue and flowered
and has a bed rolled up inside, like an unborn dreamer.

This is the only couch I’ve owned that I did not buy.
An ex-wife gave me it just for getting it
out of her apartment. It’s a little ragged now,

smelling of body salt and trapped dampness. I’ve collapsed
onto it, almost drunk, too many times, and slept,
my head swimming as if I were on a floral river raft.

I love it for its support. Especially when I’ve forgotten
the universe and fallen over at one or two ante meridiem,
not knowing which planet or house or bed.

In the dream I have on it most often,
I am folded in a near-lotus posture, drifting
calmly like hands in the lap of the river.

It is night. Asmiling moon does not wink
or warn. Clouds are cream swirls in black tea.
Agreat bat tongues the mosquito whining in my head.