Escaping the dark vignetting down wooded lanes behind my dog, past graveyards and ponds so black and still they drain the sky. I’ve been myself for fifty years and I still don’t understand. Then he puts his whole head down a rabbit hole.

Sometimes laughs and food and the friction of soft skin and work work work is all that keeps the light on. The engine of dreams and rewards, a pedal-powered lightbulb flickers and love is all and I and I are hopped up on gratitude in the pleasure dome.

One time when I was tripping every one of my ancestors and my unborn grandchildren, grown old, gathered around me in my woods in the twilight, a crowd of them, as far as I could see. Transparent shadows and points of light for eyes. No one spoke. No one answered my questions. They were only there to see me breath.

I clap one hand to my forehead and hear the sound: So obvious! “Like two hands clapping—but one is holding a coconut!” It’s the wrong joke in the zendo and the Abbot barely smiles. I’m a tourist here, I should stay in my lane. But the lightbulb throbs and my dog and I make light. The dark closes behind us and it’s alright. It’s alright.