My Human Disguise.
Behind closed eyes, what’s written I redact —
Such is not just an idea but an act.
I don’t mean dreams, nor the imagined fact,
Like the nautilus, a chambered prison
Of the real, the unreal, and the abstract.
All I see is suspect and misprision.
Then bloom the perfect flowers of the now,
The dance of the ideal shapes, the entr’acte
Between times (those blind-eyed scenes of the show).
Now doesn’t admit even one and three,
Only two, which becomes nonentity
And leaves a shape we only think we see.
It’s all we know, not all we need to know.
