As if they were stones
Or birds, homes or doors,
That aren’t in the world
At all—we’re all stuck
In rooms of these thoughts,
Not just our small dolls
We give name and place
And move here and there
So we can tell tales
Of them. All of us.
Look, here’s God. So sad,
So lost in the waste
And void. And there’s fact,
Which should not be here,
But of course is, but
Must be in here, too.
How else would we know,
In these rooms, what’s false
And what’s true? You know
Those stones, birds, homes, doors?
They’re no more than thoughts,
Real as stones, birds, homes
With doors. That’s s a door.
