The mind's eye
Could be the sun, if it ever was.
Darkening sky, darker shapes
not shadows but clouds
shapes only you can see—
smoke from a fire,
that dream about your mother.
Could be the thing at the back of your eye
until the brain turns it around—
trees walking on their leaves,
wearing their roots like hair.
Could be the thought you forgot
then remembered later
after everyone had gone.
In the daytime it’d be different.
Everything white and fluffy.
The sky blue.
Still the half-formed shape, the real beneath.