SOLIPSISM WHEEL AND BOB
The only thing we can be sure of being real
are the qualia of our perceptions, the edited
universe of our sensorium: the sullen embers
of dying stars, the wheeling galaxies streaming
cold glitter, the spaces between them,
the turning prayer-wheels of planets,
this planet Earth, are only certain in our skulls,
which coincidentally are the only places where
gods, and magic, and mythical beasts can be found
in their natural habitat, being laid down as layers
of synaptic proteins.
I know I am.
Cogito ergo sum.
I’m not sure about you.
But then suddenly
you arise, the perfect
and you, only you
and you only