Toxic Afternoon

lost in the haze high
on mothballs I tumble
into the peaceful grasp
of gentle space–
searingly settled space
feels so tight
I can hardly
even float–
over the cliff,
along with the sun
I fight the haze that
settles like fresh
dust beaten
from the soles
of the Guru’s
feet.
remember
how the rain
washed out the toxic afternoon?
And how the cliff
washed out the precious breath?
And how the mind
washed clean the blood,
splattered beautifully
throughout your veins?