Revision
You see what you think
is a grifter's sleight,
the Red Queen creased
by the hand of God.
As if I were some shiny coin
to pluck from behind a child's ear.
Instead like a long-eared manx in a box, I wait
(in two states) for the saw's rasp of quantum certainty.
The universe is 182 cubic centimeters,
cold silk, brimmed, and oscillating with heat death.
Your stories give us watches.
We are late, ever late.
Even this is perception.
I speak a mystery;
there is no hat.
Original
You see what you think
is the Red Queen creased
by the hand of God.
You look to his hands
expecting
a grifter's sleight.
I am not some shiny coin
to pluck from behind an ear.
I am like the cat in the box
(in two states) waiting
for quantum certainty.
The universe is cold
silk and brimmed
with heat death.
Your stories give us watches.
We are late, ever late.
Even this is perception.
I speak a mystery;
there is no hat.
You see what you think
is a grifter's sleight,
the Red Queen creased
by the hand of God.
As if I were some shiny coin
to pluck from behind a child's ear.
Instead like a long-eared manx in a box, I wait
(in two states) for the saw's rasp of quantum certainty.
The universe is 182 cubic centimeters,
cold silk, brimmed, and oscillating with heat death.
Your stories give us watches.
We are late, ever late.
Even this is perception.
I speak a mystery;
there is no hat.
Original
You see what you think
is the Red Queen creased
by the hand of God.
You look to his hands
expecting
a grifter's sleight.
I am not some shiny coin
to pluck from behind an ear.
I am like the cat in the box
(in two states) waiting
for quantum certainty.
The universe is cold
silk and brimmed
with heat death.
Your stories give us watches.
We are late, ever late.
Even this is perception.
I speak a mystery;
there is no hat.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson