Sun lit the high gables of the neighbors,
The snow on their shingles glowing gold.
Memory sat on a couch on the edge
Of an abyss excavated in less than a decade.
Experience did its level best to convince me
Nothing in that experience was real, or if
It were real, it was not a reality that cared
To reveal what was really going on with it.
Now, why would experience contradict itself
Like that, why would experience try to tell me
That? To accept the argument for illusion
Is to implicitly accept both the distinction
Between the illusory and the real, as well
The notion that the real is greater, beyond.
If it were all illusion, then the label mattered
Not in the slightest, so why bother
With the pejorative? I suspected what I sensed
Amounted more to multiple hints in the form
Of discrepancies, hints of something neither
More nor less real or illusory, but other than,
An extension beyond experience, at least
As experienced so far, to far different senses
Of experience nonetheless rooted or linked
In this, this seeming illusory, seeming unreal.
Incompleteness is not necessarily trickery,
And this cosmos is nothing if not incomplete.
It’s not as if the dead know they’re gone, nor
As if the living know for certain they’re not.
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