How does one come to believe in the moon?
What it actually is, I mean; not what it appears
to be. It is not a lantern, held up in the sky
by some invisible god. It is not an illuminated,
disembodied head, floating in the ether.
And Saturn, with its glowing, colored rings.
You pull back from the lens, startled, dis-
believing. You look around you at what is real,
what can be touched, what can be believed in.
And fog, what is that? Only water, they tell me,
mere vapor. Thick, cushioned, its own universe.
And there you are, within it. Alone. Sound moves
toward, away from you. The very air has become
visible, it touches your face, it wraps itself around
your solid body. In this blind universe, what are you?
This week's prompt: The Magician
Leave a Reply