Sitting in lotus position, the yoga teacher reminds us to thank our bodies 
for what they’ve just done, half-moon and reverse warrior, 
side-angle and downward-facing dog. 

We’ve just woken from the dead, having been in deep rest,
when she rouses us with a clanging bell 
that sounds Doppler-ish  

thanks to unstable WIFI. Shiva Saana. I always try to focus on the rain 
slapping my studio windows, on a plane about to land at SeaTac, 
but I pretty much always can’t 

because I’m thinking about the garbage, how I have to collect it 
from each little wicker basket, sort it (don’t want 
my orange peels ending up in a landfill, 

or the toilet paper rolls anywhere but the recycling bin). 
The bell is tolling, and I’m supposed 
to be reviving myself, 

but instead I’ve been lugging the bins to the curb, checking 
on the spinach starts, kicking gravel out of the driveway, 
back to its home in the cracks along the side porch. 

What can I say? I make a pretty bad cadaver? That it will take 
turning me into ash or compost to get me to stop obsessing 
about the next thing on my list? It’s 7 am, 

and already I’ve clocked 45 move minutes on my Apple Watch. 
Hurray for me! Now I will find peace beside the space heater 
with a cup of turmeric and ginger tea 

supposed to help my aching knees. No, I haven’t graduated 
to Boddhisatva quite yet. The door’s ajar, 
and the cats rush in like the air 

through the gap in a door I’ll maybe, at the end, float through, 
past the oldest cedars in Seattle, toward the dead who live 
inside each eagle invisibly squealing.