That great idea sparkled,
imagining a self that is beyond oneself,
though alike all others,
Where breathing air is a miracle
of filling a mass, and seeing for sight
a mechanism viewed, not closely near to being understood,
And flesh and bone, a false creationism,
one of God, of man—of both alike;
the muse so exactly measured,
so detailed and defined and primed.
To discuss it would be off topic.
So, let’s cut to the chase.
Realism in truth, no “isms” could deduce it
to reasons or plainness, or a way to prove it in ways.
There is nothing and everything all at once, just waiting, just waking,
and this time it is just you who steps out of the front door to go.