Being At Peace

The earth is vaster than imagining. It’s an enormous flatness against my ribs where I lie, like a huge heart. My cheek is on my arms, soft. I’m looking across the park at a ninety degree angle, so the sky and the ground are sandwiching me straight up. The bank I’m lying on holds a dribble of other people in the crook of its curve; universally small fleshtangles made slow and happy by sun. The clouds drift along like titanic sheep in a blue field.