How can I believe in
something,
just because it happened?
This outward agitation,
these shifting scenes and patterns.
All I know
is the music within,
blood pulse,
cry of atoms
along the template of bone.
Even the names of flowers
and trees
are always escaping me.
Sometimes I envy them,
their tangibles,
their things of substance and form,
their weighted muses
hung with segments of the real.