Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Tempest in a Teapot

Imagine all the world is inside-out 
and what you thought was hard reality 
is pure imagination resting in 
a headless head. That picture window is 
an opening within this consciousness. 
Look, chickadees are feeding on themselves. 
Their cerebellum is this space of sky 
and eyes are everywhere it touches. Ground 
is just the edges of a deepest sleep 
from which the branches of some scientific 
playground spread until I see myself. 
My leaves are falling everywhere. My river 
runs through sure-footed galaxies. My ocean 
waves at countless years of soundless notions. 
None of this is what I really am.

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