I can't seem to get any work done
or write any poems that don't begin with 'I.'
The air smells so delicious though,
and the sun is dappling through my half-drawn blinds
and lying on my couch underneath it all
is the only thing I feel like doing.
And it's I, I, I,
all the time
because there is no you,
The calm circle certitude of this moment
needs no other link to chain it.
Needs words, but none spoken.
Needs love, but none is lacking.
So, lying here, I can feel free
to center myself.