Restful Kind of Quiet

Meditate to the mediocre
middle of chaotic, unsure,
undulating spectra. That's 
a practice one can reach,
without that perfect spritz,
that mist-dissolution that
sees blank like a pair of 
visions see the sun at the
edge of a mountain on the
clearest day. There is dirt,
there is haze, there is a 
patch of half-hearted 
asphalt in the ditch.
Be with these midpoints.
See with creaking joints
a body that walks toward
something quite not ideal.