One day, it occurs that I’m driving through minds. This street, its curb, its gabled homes— None of it self-emergent, all planned. And what about the books on the shelf? They are litanies of consciousness Just asking to be heard by another. I had to stop behind construction yesterday. The road, driven on for the thousandth time, Had yet to reveal a newness. A lavender spray of flowers on the fence, Twined before the mansion, winked with Spring. Why not, then, infer, that this, yes this, too— Might be the work of a Mind? That even your own eye and hand Are crafted, and not yours to claim?
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