Jonathan B. Aibel


on a string hammock
loosely stretched between  oak and ash

which can not now be used
with snow falling, the one 

place to carry my vibrating
self to stillness.  It depends

on the hammock, a cloudless day, not
too hot, when I can lift my spirit 

out of this biological gutter, so
I become breath, and thoughts

clouded sulphurs, touch weightlessly
and flit, the susurrus of leaf louder

than my list of things to do;  it depends
on aspirin and ibuprofen, on

my heart, liver and lungs,
flanked by kidneys aligning

like all eight planets tugging
magnetic and gravitic tides ...

it depends on the hammock,
a cloudless day and stillness, on

turning my brain outside
in, on raising my hands 

and making light come out my palms,
each cell rejoicing,

all the ripples in my head
resolving into a single tone —

B above middle C —
droning honey for my hive.

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