The middle’s edges

A hospital bed is as good an altar as any, I discovered. The teacher’s scent, braided 
with Pinesol and antiseptic wipes, coaxed my eyes downward, into the immanence.



“Don’t fret, I’m at home here, at the middle’s edges”, he said, pointing at the earphones.

Knopfler brought angels to tears on the left; Handel balmed and uplifted them on the right.
 Hammocked between the aural weave, descending in Now, the teacher took his last breath,

and released me.