Moving through sound

I lounge on the grass, that’s all. So simple. Then I lie back until I am   Inside the cloud that is just above me   but very high, and shaped like a fish.   Or, perhaps not. Then I enter the place of not-thinking, not-remembering,   not-wanting. When the blue jay cries out his riddle, in his carping voice, I return.   But I go back,  the threshold is always near. Over and back, over and back. Then   I rise. Maybe I rub my face as though I have been asleep. But I have not been asleep.   I have been, as I say, inside the cloud, or, perhaps the lily floating   on the water. Then I go back to town,   to my own house, my own life, which has now become brighter and simpler,   somewhere I have never been before.