Not That You Mind

Like a mountain in a pond,
The mind confined in the bones
Of one sleepy, minor skull

Must consist of reflections
Or of nothing much at all,
Given it’s impossible

To fit mountains into ponds.
If the hours are still enough,
The reflections can pretend

To shape a single image,
As if there were one mountain
And it rose behind the eye,

The genuine property
Of the pond. The slightest breeze
Of active thought, however,

Reveals the many mountains,
Shapes varied and distorted,
Neither a peak nor pond.