Sessions: A Black Room, to Start
she says, be here now.
but he keeps drifting:
where is the edge of this ocean?
can i get a wall to scratch?
she says, draw out your sorrow—
is it one-dimensional? are the roots red?
he says he found a stick
but cannot reach sand
he says he found a stick
but forgot to pack his hands.
he drifts deeper, wonders if
‘we’ is inherently polarized:
west/ east.
in the water, there is no direction
but under.
right brain, left mood:
all of it, like all of we, dysphotic.
sorrow,
he winces,
is a wet gauze—
a man’s skin, chilled
by photons (closeness, a woman’s tepid
touch). she says
the room’s too warm;
turn on the light.
