First Sunday

Sitting, on a Sunday, I saw
that the view through
my window was nothing
more than intersections; that
my house was merely
the meeting of lines; that
my body was only overlapping
matter; that the earth was a plain
partnership of decomposition;
that my love was simply concentric
existence; that this place was, is,
both an evaporating echo and
a crescendo of some someone’s
or no one’s unknowable
making. So as we all coincide,
amplify and fight Doppler, I
can only sleep with an Om
in and Ma out, and
be happy with the smoke
from this fall’s first fire.