First Meditation

The things I think I know are
only a partial reflection, a
blurred shadow
of the things to be known.

When the sun falls.
When the water drains.

I still only know this scent.
The warmth of a Rothko.
The sound of a Bald Man.

Unless my senses are stuck in
dreams, not waking, and
my waking reflections
actually dreams I’m making.



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