is it real?
the house?
the light that spills in
through the windows
that look out into the yard
we so deeply love?
are we real?
are you real?
how do i know anything?
(with respect to Descartes)
are those stars peering down on me
or is it me peering down upon myself?
i don’t know
i don’t know if i ever knew
and does it matter in the end
a wound watch will tick
tick, tick, tick, tick
until at last it winds down
it doesn’t wonder
why am i wound up?
and why do i tick so?
and why, oh why
am i?
it just ticks
and then it doesn’t.

for now
i am real
and
i am here
the scent of your hair
as i drift off to sleep
is the most real of real
these things,
they anchor me
in this harbour
until one day
i am set adrift
and am pulled out to sea
away and away and away
into the dark
and who knows what
but
for now
i am real