when sitting crisscross applesauce
considering all the ways I could hold
every hand on earth and sing
campfire songs like mantras,
not muttered but chanted
like soccer fight songs—forgive
the crudity of “fight”—soccer love songs,
earth passion songs,
existence orgiastic songs sung
in a human net of joy around the planet.

This is the trap.

Strive instead for a moment of calm,
a single soothed infant, one
family dinner without scathing gossip.
The dream comes after
a million short steps,
a billon deep counted breaths.