Why do I insist on the inimitability of perception?
That the blue I see is not the blue you view?
Am I comforted by the illimitability of deception
proving nothing can be proven to be true?
I’ve just come back from walking through the snow.
I’d watched it coming down in what the wind blew
cinematically in squalls and drifts across my window:
persuasive evidence that what I saw was there. Few
moments can persuade like this: wherein I barely
think to ask if what I’m seeing has occurred.
In fact, belief in it grew absolute – how rarely
trust to that degree has breached my world! Word
no longer was a symbol: it was indistinguishable
from a palpable Reality: this “snow” was snow.
And so I walked into it in an un-extinguishable
light, both real and in my sight, to undergo
what I was sure would be the actual.
That I wouldn’t do what now I only do: refuse.
That to find what I had thought I sought, the factual,
would not have led to dissolution, or killed my muse.
When things are real
they tear apart
the heart. They steal