Pre-Matrix Existence in Berkeley, California

James Bowden

after James Wright

My eyes buzz, my temples buzz, the mattress
burning beneath me, heart throbbing dully
beneath it all. pat…pat…pat… and so on. Faintly, lazily.
I close my eyes, and suddenly the cacophony
of birds sweeps through my window, loud.
The pink magnolia tree, I know, has begun to bloom
just outside. It has no leaves yet, I know,
and is burning whatever saved oil to birth such beauties.
Talk about luxury. Talk about excess. The sun no longer
in the sky, but a vague orange hue settling into the mountains
and accenting my walls. I want to see, but my thumb keeps moving
like he wants to lose weight. He’ll follow any track
you put him on til the finish line appears. He does not tire and he does not
whine. Simply trods along, machine.
Meanwhile, the doorbell rings, probably a package,
and the haze recedes weakly.
I glance up from my phone screen and the room is grey.
I have wasted my life.

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Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota