Life is a dream from which we’ve just woken up;
We quickly forget where we were the last moment,
Have we left too many airtight wrinkles behind
To trace our steps?
Why must the mind demand all that proof
Of what seemed unassailable reasoning
In the deep work of sleep, called non sequiturs
When the task is complete?
When we look at ourselves from above
Can we say that our arc is like a birds’?
Or do we endlessly skip from conundrum and repulsion
Waiting for imagined worms to drop?
There is no philosophy precise enough,
No words that won’t succumb to generosity,
No numbers to take the place of consciousness
(Or help us sleep as the case may be).
We say we’re afraid of nothingness, but we’re not
It’s that something flows on like a river
Without us, with no mind to make ripples
As it clasps a no-longer-laughing stick.
