The reasons why we call things true is the reason why they are true –William James
Time renders objects less solid, location less reliable.
I once counted on eyes to see, ears to hear. Now I seek
another source for what is tangible. Is it a measured thing,
a gadget with heft that can break or be broken?
I stumble upon gossamer facts, shoddily clad, toothless,
swinging a sky lantern that fails to illuminate space
or cast clarity upon time. Frozen at this crossroads,
endless empty train cars pass me by, echoing hollow sounds.
I wake uncertain. Is this Tokyo or Seattle? What year is it?
Too late, I find that all my beliefs have gone astray.
Have they left me for another universe?
Unreliable leftovers slosh over the edge of my own bowl
of memory at odd moments. Vision dims as objects
float, flicker, disappear. Youth is so much more certain
than age. The living recline upon the dead,
burying fractals deeper by generation.