On the Reduction

[Truerenigma]

Synaptic firings light the eye, as on
A screen, the light behind the constant film,
Or is it lit by photons from outside;
Do we take in our love and life like trees
Set on a hill in matched eternal sway
Commanded by the wind and Earth’s own curve
Around the sun that fools us to perceive
The setting and the rising of the day?
You may be just a rainbow then, and I
A trick of your own light, illusory, —
No, though I pass like shed autumnal leaves
Right through your stream, I fall behind and find
Your shade proves your solidity. And this
The surface, then, is irreducible.