is a thought in another realm
At a higher turn of the illusion,
where philosophes of wind
Posture and postulate
about essential things ...
we can feel it
Though we can't quite ride
along as yet
Past the concrete block our souls
seem to be flyttrapped in of late,
Forced to navigate a game whose rules
are understood only by playing,
The only way to know
it's a game.
The wind blows, the kind of a day
when matter ceases
In gulps at a time, the screw
turned loose finally
And the density chains unlock
to light and wind as one
For once ...
then the wind moves on,
Clouds over the sun
form paintings of their experience
That decorate the solarium
where students -- they call themselves
Teachers -- sit rapt, deal propositions
like black hearts.
