buy a book. Don’t go to bed early.
Seek out beige, in foodstuffs and landscapes.
Chew gum if you’re overwhelmed.
You’re in this alone. That means there’s nobody to stop you.
You’re almost at the finish line.
But first, you have to pick a finish line.
DELPHI
Everyone asks you what the god thinks—
I want to know what you think.
Behind the temple, a short lady
bends in terror over a shallow pond’s edge.
I tell her if she wants opinions
she has to get to the other side
and undress—a bamboo hedge
will tastefully obscure her
—peach and coconut flashes
behind vegetable prison bars—
that the prison is the mind,
that the pond is what we call thought.
She’s not so short her hair
would get muddy—
only the washable robes
and sandals.
I get into the pond and point out a path of rocks,
and my bald head too,
so she may step across.
I tell her to think of my bald head
as a squeaky, dense pill
of white medicine.
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