Wash hands, wash mind. Life is a process
of decomposition; what appears, at times,
to be growth is a mysterious symptom
having nothing to do with the outcome,
or at least that's how it feels when I peel
a banana or stand on the beach waiting
for my boy to pass me the ball, shoulders
hunched, arms half dangled, and hands slightly
curled, as the crashing waves wash over the back-
ground mind, like a theater in which the spot-
light shines not on the star's climactic speech
but on an invisible hand backstage.
Art is a production for breaking up sleep;
a banana peel tossed on the compost heap.
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