John Estes (bio)

So in this dream I’m falling and falling and thinking
for some reason about the bleeding
woman who went flat broke trying to fix
her issue. Passing through the cirrocumulus
then a skein of geese, starting to panic;
imagine the mess, the strain, the shaming weakness
full-time hemorrhaging brings, costs
without benefits. Starting to wonder about
what’s coming. I’ve heard if you hit the ground
before waking, you die. She fixed her flow
lunging in a crowd for the—what?—lucked out,
hit the hem, bleeding stemmed.
Wish I could remember if they count that story
literature or history, or whether they know
if that day was this sunny or if she
ever complained again about the price of medicine.
Trees and swimming pools come into focus
but I’m suddenly ambivalent about
the endgame here, my dearth of options beyond
taking what’s being offered,
not resisting the ground gravity prepares
me to manure. Thinking of that old zen dictum
that says keep your eyes open, be willing
to take the cane so that, by the time your
awakening arrives, you’re supple enough to greet it.

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