Some level of anxiety,

leaving phone downstairs.
I’m up in the attic with Quinoa after coffee at Cahoots with Mike.
I don’t want to do my Yoga,
but I will.

Spread my stones,
placed my ceramic barefoot woman—
golden ray extending to infinity
from the peak of her blue cap.
Topaz Buddha on their side looking due East by the red toenail.
Quinoa sniffing my knee.
Brother Orzo, sick from a urethral blockage,
shut in the bedroom because brother Teff
is upset and attacks him.

Oh, well. All four gods
within the compass of her feet—
southward-spreading square, all looking South-East,
except for Amethyst Satva on their back and pointing West;
Feldspar Dhamma westmost but sheer East;
new Rose nosing East southerly:
           exploring.

How can we ever stop exploring?
Old men should be explorers!
T. S. Eliot almost discovered the Mississippi—good Missouri boy,
then and in England.
Whatever may be our fate,
ways to avoid a gruesome, brutal end.
Never stop!
even in the gibbet.

A sense of a lack of response.
At a crossroads—
the next two weeks will determine a lot.

Big connection, then shock of absence.
Don’t panic, she won’t leave you.
None of them will leave you.