“The abstract is the most we know,”
Says the blind, woodenheaded imp.
“Reality is just for show,
Like a colorful, leaking blimp,
Or eyes painted yolky yellow,
Which see only bye or hello.”
We might ask it, “How can you tell?”
It would reply, “There is no point
To my rejoinder or the joint
Where two knotty blocks form an ‘L.’
You may think you see something All,
A tree dropping leaves in the Fall —
They’re not even a chimera,
Just habit, your ephemera.”
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase at Amazon. Click here:
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