Meanwhile, oblivious to everything, my mind's eye
just now peered into an aperture which opened to it
like a spy hole, to see a colorful cartoon of anthropoidal
tree and fungi: the tree bore on its back a human face –
the fungi, green and blue, had coalesced into a unity
supporting head and arms and hands all turned
beseechingly up to a pinkish-yellow sky: at first I thought,
well, there but for his sanity goes Guy, but then I happily
revised that bore of a banality into: oh good! since I am
picturing all this perhaps I’m wondrously afflicted
by some fractal mental illness after all, and maybe I can
slip beyond the intervening wall to join the happy scene.
Is there a navigable in-between that separates insanity
from sanity, which may on close investigation offer up its
secret: there is no in-between – they are a single game?
Are separations falsely named? Do we turn their fictions
into sneaky strategies, because they're fun, because they
manufacture mysteries without which we'd be bored? Do we
crave, therefore create, to help us like what we are going
through, another and another ineluctably delicious aperçu?
Let’s tell the Lord we know what he’s been up to.