Woe to Those Who Grind Lenses for the Soul

Think of it. If atoms split,
Why wouldn’t consciousness nest?
In that case, waking life makes

As much of awareness as
Earth makes of the universe,
An orrery of stories

On a table top atop
A stone, orbiting alone
Around a star, around stars,

Around spiral arms, around
Clusters studding a torus,
A wall of galaxies, all

Aware, too, of awareness—
Which would hold true if you moved
Down into the well, as well,

Telescope turned microscope,
With dream awareness within
Waking, dreams themselves making

Great heaps of dreams within dreams,
Down to wavicles aware
And not aware, not aware

But aware, somehow, down there.
Every waking awareness
That refuses this then is

Pre-Copernican again,
Convinced cycles are circling
Around what’s circling around

In its nest of consciousness,
Of awarenesses aware
Of infinite finities.

That sounds fine, like a good time.
Like mass, at all scales it falls,
But it only hurts on Earth.