INVISIBLE
    CITIES

“Things as they are,”
Who would proffer such hubris?
We, who spend half our lives
In sleep, in vulnerable comas,
Whose brains and thoughts
Are cased in hermetic fortresses
Infinite miles away from the “real”.
We, who from these personal galaxies
Can only attempt proxy (language)
Damned to describe.
We, who touch only through fleshy gloves,
Never directly.
We, who only reproduce the world through watery orbs,
Never in contact.
But
There they are,
Nevertheless,
Things as they are.
But wait,
Perhaps
There is no “contact” or “directness”
Because it is not “things” but
One
thing.