The pipes ticking,

the radio’s voices quietly conspiring,

the cat as if drunk

clanking about the kitchen,

I practice bare attention

and open myself to it all

the moment

the room, the moonlight

the chair by the window

waiting as if for a ghost

a book upturned, open on a page

I’ve read and reread a thousand times

and train my breath and listen

and recall intently

five beautiful moments

that happened that day

as part of a regime to rig my happiness

but i’m stuck on a thought,

the memory of a fly

I killed some hours ago

when I got up to urinate in the bowl,

and feel strange and sad

for the two of us adrift

and apportioned to poles

and set apart by the whole shabby

business of existing.