The Loneliest Monk Listens

The first step is to imagine.

No, before that: breathe. Breathe, and know
breath. That’s where it begins.

Breath? Consciousness?

That’s where you begin.

I have enough of me. I’m everywhere I turn.
The fog on the window, the shadow on the sidewalk,
the chattering inner voice . . .

The next step: remember.

Remember to breathe? To know?

Once, you drifted in a plastic boat in a swimming pool.
Once, racing to catch a fly ball, you tumbled in right field.
Once, you shook flakes from your scalp onto the page of an algebra textbook.
Once, humming your way home from the record store, you clutched a bag with New Morning in it.
Once, you kissed a Belgian girl on a Mediterranean beach.
Once, after seeing a surgeon on a Tuesday morning, you read
         mortal poetry on an art museum’s sunny steps.

How do you know this?

Like you, I breathe. I know. I remember.

You remember me?

I imagine you.

You do seem to know me.

I know what the bare light bulb in the attic knows, I know
what the key in the lock knows, I know
what the bedroom mirror knows.

How do you know?

Who do you think you’re talking to?

I thought I was talking to myself.

God, you
are so full of yourself.
Shut up
now. Listen.