At first it isn’t so bad — a taste of ecstasy, the world covered in honey. Even snails scrawl the names of buddhas with their silvery trails. But then, too much. Pears become unbearable, wet white flesh so tender one could perish contemplating the first taste. Meditation becomes oddly redundant, attention now like water, absorbed in tree root, plumbing; even fire hydrants with their red stubby arms become mandalas, and, worse, the police siren revving its wail behind my slow-moving car sounds like a mantra. Even my wife’s complaints about me finally sound true. I just bow. Kiss her slender hands. Carry the garbage outside, but, damn! The moon!
