In places, it drifts, the mind,
sticks down a sluggish canal,
cottonwood white across the sky
settling into a drift along the path,
a fluffy organism, does it assemble like
the lonely cells which gather to form a slug.
I see them sometimes in the garden
where there is something to eat en masse
do they celebrate a sluggish Eucharist,
somewhere the wind picks up,
the stick focuses on the opposite bank,
the fluff blows straight east, the mind
snaps to attention.