First Day

I dream
of magazine covers
and clothes from my seventeenth summer,
of black monks smiling
placidly, serenely,
moving lightly through deep gardens,
of God opening slowly
like saffron lit petals—
and myself thinking, yes,
of course.

Second Day

Nothing moves.
There is an amazing silence.
I become large and bored with sitting here.
I roam the house, watch glutted birds
peg leg on the lawn, peck after
each other for crumbs.

Third Day

The walls breathe and tremble
with a stout wind from rich evergreens.
When I try to be calm,
every part of my skin itches.
My stomach quarrels noisily,
  its juices working against itself.
I force myself to sit
very still, feel my own breathing.

Fourth Day

My blood thins.
I sense a pouring out of myself
and become fluid.
Thoughts grow spare
yet flash through me 
like bright heat lightning
on a dry, summer day.
Everything I think of is profound.