Bookstore Fantasy Aisle

Grant them a material
Existence as conceptions
Created from memories
And language for solid things,

Then, in a sense, they’ve planted
That tree growing inside you,
You know the one, the knowledge
Of mind, which is only mind.

Other people watch people
For the people, the fusions
Of bodies with mind they are,
But you focus on the mind,

The way its branches hang out
Of their mouths, eyes, and ears, hands
Trailing twig tips like willows,
How they move like potted plants,

How they converse without roots,
Without mycelia, how
They tilt and sway their crowns,
How they’re many growing one,

How one is part of the mind,
One of the lies of the mind,
Which isn’t one, but legion,
How the wind coaxes the leaves.