are whispered
by the most complex systems—
like the dreamer
who dreams, and then
invades his dream, insisting
that nothing exists
unless it's being witnessed.
Our senses say
we're nothing
but brief, diffuse clouds
of temperature and pressure,
but we don't
have to listen to these
wild allegations.
After all, time
can't be fundamental,
for one, it's too pervasive.
For another, it's far
too easily killed.
For a third,
what we tend to mean by
"I'm doing really well"
is just that we've been
staying hungry
for heaven
but only
the smallest bit
lonely for hell.
