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Though it's pointed toward the horizon like a microphone set to catch a distant song
Ledey-da-lee, ledey-da-ley teeraloo teeralah
The telescope like a long Tibetan horn catches time, then lets it go

As far as it will go into another dimension
As flat and round as words on a page or the gray grim plane that fields
Another universe, where only certain worms can travel to and fro

On the tracks of grimy fingerprints smudged on a sheet of glass
Repulsive and beautiful at once
In which we see a human face, or its echo, a visual ghost

It all depends on who does the seeing
Through the glass by day or of the glass at night
And how the seer's imagination functions at that moment

Black or bright determines whether the seeing is sight or insight
Through a glass darkly
Or a vision of another kind, prophetic, grave, mad, or blind

Blind blob bleak black blond
As it says in an old song adrift like blue smoke in the air:
Scratch a terrier and soon find cat vomit on a desk chair

Abandoned on a street outside an empty building
In a non-local field of decoherence
Occupied now by ghosts where Billie Holliday sang

Haunted in her solitude and reveries of days gone by
By sounds that can't save themselves, they're given instead to times in places we remember later
Unaware of Schrödinger's non-local cat who can be dead and alive at the same time

In a boxwood box, close-grained, hard, and heavy
Like its inhabitants, the ideas of a hypothetical feline
As the representatives in dreams of whole events that have been condensed

Condensation is where two or more concepts are fused
So that a single symbol represents the multiple components

 

 

n e x t

 

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