If action turns the world within,
Then who knows where the world begins?
If sitting still should make one smart,
Then who can make a piece of art?
when breadth and height themselves are clear,
what then, when depth and time appear?
when space and time the self erode,
where, then, is found a safe abode?
bereft of home, can being be?
can being, without a center, see?
and seeing implies a pair of eyes:
what of the nose, and ears, and thighs?
and shapes that intersections bring
to bear upon this living thing –
if thingness is perceived at all.
what one, within the large, is small?
the faces in the clouds seem real;
a moment later: smell-hear-feel.
tasting something true, one finds
the thought that what is wound unwinds.
movement, stillness, presence, time:
what’s the nature of a rhyme?
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