we only see what we understand
we cling to the cohesion of already made concepts
for fear. the unknown, the ambivalent, the uncanny
haunt us with their hallucinatory feelings,
words at last. the spring of poetry is close
poetic word and poetic image fused in an ecstatic embrace
we still don't know we have the instinct of truth
the reciprocity between the apple and the tree is there
to push the limits of imagination
but thought hates the void, feels endangered by its hallucination
is so oblivious of any murky origin
different breeds of thought breathe differently
you and you and you are not an accident of thought
each cell fights for its unknowable identity. yes,
thoughts-light and thoughts-darkness are conversing
along the spine of night