Behind the wall I sensed a monument of man.
And dreaming I could reach through things,
my hands grasped and kneaded the world.
As if in a quake a tremor from below
shook the room of the house and walls fell
in an avalanche of vacuum drifting away.
Like a scream without a voice,
words ceased to sound and you and me ceased to exist.
At the same time we were aware of it all
and still are.
I see you on the other side of each door opening.
When I step into the room, you step out.
When I leave, you enter.
Halfway once I ask you who you are.
You smile and answer.
Before you see me, we are one.
After you leave me, we are one.
In between are the doors of creation.
No one really enters.
No one really leaves.
We think of invisible worlds and alternative ways.
Against conditioning and domestication, re-existence arises
like spring from the soils of Arcadia.
There is no reality, no earth, no sea, no tree, no you, no me.
We, who assemble ourselves from dust
like mind-lenses bootstrapping society in endless variety.