Night, so still,
where things entirely white
and things of red and all colors of the rainbow
are lifted into the one stillness
of one darkness—
bring me as well
to immersion in the Many.
Is my mind too taken with light?
If my face were not visible,
would I still feel separate from other things?
Look at my hands:
Don't they lie there like tools?
Doesn't the ring on that finger
look just like itself? Does not the light
lie upon them with such trust—
as if knowing they are the very same
when held in darkness.
Book of Images
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