I get down, physically
on the couch, emotionally,
spiritually;
my breath goes down
while the darkness doesn’t;
it comes up out of the ground
as Jim Harrison once wrote
in a poem.
Then grace rises like
the sun and moon
and descends near me,
sitting on the slippery
floor, before
sliding down, pushing
the rug a little ways away.
I reach down and scratch
Buddy Baloo
behind his ear.
He lets out a sigh and
falls asleep and then I
do, too.