Its stranger than every strangenessAnd the dreams of all the poetsAnd the thoughts of all the philosophersThat things are really what they seem to beAnd theres nothing to understand.

I think about this not like someone thinking but like someone breathingAnd I look at flowers and I smile...I dont know if they understand meOr if I understand themBut I know the truth is in them and in meAnd in our common divinityOf letting ourselves go and live on the EarthAnd carrying us in our arms through the contented SeasonsAnd letting the wind sing us to sleepAnd not have dreams in our sleep.

That thing over there was more there than its thereYes sometimes I cry about the perfect body that doesnt exist.But the perfect body is the bodiest body there can beAnd the rest are the dreams men haveThe myopia of someone who doesnt look very much