Let’s say that in this equation, x equals listening.
            And y equals the velvet of your hand
                        on my inner knee. And z equals

a widening gap in the clouds where the blue leaks through.
            And then p is the tongue. And q is a road of 379 miles,
                        and r is the rate of what a song does in an empty room.

I don’t know. What I’m saying is that I’ve been trying
            to solve the problem, but the variables
                        keep changing. And where does dirt come into this?

It’s 2:13 a.m. Isn’t that an odd time to do an interview?

Not for me.

Okay. What do you want to talk about?

Well, today I was struck by all the ways we try to control our world. How we like to test, to standardize, to codify and quantify and know. That seems like such a human thing to want to do—to impose order. Or to pretend that we have uncovered some part of the blueprint for the universe—or some integral part of ourselves—and now we think we REALLY know something.

I didn’t really want
to walk into the ocean.
Though the breeze was warm.

Though the water was clear.
Being dry felt, well, so dry.
And I liked it, feeling dry.

“You can’t be baptized
if you don’t get in the water,”
said Rumi, and he rushed

past me from behind, leaping,
launching himself into the waves.
Then he turned toward shore to splash me.