By Ivanovich Veen
Oh. Yes, you were facing the other direction.
I remember when I could do handstands,
And I could feel my breath flow—
An inch behind my forehead, somewhere
In between the ornamental arrangement of flowers
And disparate ideas of the past.
Clean glass reflects only partly,
Like my body after psilocybin,
When living, again, becomes a series of habits
(like lying down alone).
How can I feel like a color?
Is there wisdom in that?