Waking from a Siesta

She leans against the wall
pale left hand on her waist
one eye out the window
one on my sheets - tobacco
and crescents of hasish

she walks slow to the window
lifts the curtain
and folds it back
so the bent oblong of sun
hoists itself across the room
framing the bed
and my bent arm

she is crossng the sun
sits on her leg here
sweeping off the makings

traces the thin bones on me
turns toppling slow on my stomach
Shiva Shihva Shivaaah

I am very still
I take in all the angles of the room

Suspended

What is in the saying of things?
What is in the doing of things?
What is in being the things?

Show me my corner
and I will sit and watch the world go by
with neither delight nor dismay
negating all perceptions
indulging in a dreamless slumber