This place doesn’t really exist, but neither
Do we, and it’s a nice place, in any case, a wedding
Veil of snow-cloud draped fetchingly across
Its mouth in the wintry desert sun, yesterday
Afternoon, a few flakes swirling all the way
Down before vanishing on contact, like souls.
It's cold, cold for where it is, cold for nonexistence,
But we are, too. We are considering philosophy.
We are considering mentalese and mind theory.
We learn about the mind by talking about the mind.
We learn about dreams by talking about dreams.
We learn about death by talking about death.
We should talk about things less. We confess,
We’re the cloud, the frozen vapor, the specks
That melt on contact, the words in conversation,
The memory of the sun and snow, the metaphor
Of the wedding veil, the claims to nonexistence,
The name of this text, the names of all of this. We
Are all of this, except your breath. What next?
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