Untethered

UNTETHERED

It was at the edge of intellect

he fell, headlong, into that 

for which he sought. Not 

deliverance from thought, 

but more a kind of whole at

which the thought had hinted at,

if be it intermittently, the whole

of his sojourning. And having fell 

he didn’t feel remarkably different. 

In the mornings, he still went

into work. He paid his bills,

(religiously,) to keep the house cool

in deep-South summers. What

changed was an acknowledgement

that he—his very self—was anything

but grounded. And more than 

that, an apprehension that this, at

last, was a base off which to build.