Ruminating

My mind is almost perfectly still, 

chewing over life on the porch of existence 

at dusk in balmy conditions. 

My zodiacal sign is the ram, a ruminant.

It chews.

I butt my wife in the butt betimes,

as she goes ahead of me up the stairs.

She likes it and whinnies appreciation.

Her zodiac sign in the is the horse.

We are not superstitious at all at all;

these signs are by chance,

seen on paper placemats before jasmine tea

and Chinese food, around midday. But

you have to marvel the accuracy.

Oblivion is a state I crave and approximate

evenings outside, a lucky Canadian escaping winter,

long, cold, driving snow, drifting, behind me, far behind,

for I’ve gone south and look, here, at the moon and clouds,

moving across a half-lit sky, charcoal blue, a few stars,

whiskey, shorts and t-shirt, palm trees, desert, remote glow.

I think the same thought over and over: 

Existence, The World, I am

empty-headed and unoccupied, free,

at the zenith and nadir of consciousness.