Wednesday, November 23, 2022

Gift of the Balsamic Moon

We are limits, not bodies,
Punctured by edits ...
That's the way it has to be;
The thing's not real
Unless seen
In all its glory
By those eyes on every side
Worrying death to infinity.

What we call the real
Mere movie
To a ghost projector 
Who slips the loops
Through dust-mote light.
The proprietor hums
As the audience turns
Stone and blind.

I have always known this,
But now ... now
Its sound is a purr
That soothes the background clouds
To sleep.
The birds wake up,
Try to sound like it,
That is, like me.