By Thomas Page
I’d like to think that what I am seeing is real
And not an illusion
Or worst yet
An allusion
To something beyond my grey-matter’s comprehension.
Whenever something that shouldn’t should
We like to blame rabbits pulled from hats
Instead of the eye watching the moving hands.
Whenever the claw in that machine drops the toy
We like blame the janky claw
Instead of the hand that moves it.
Is everything an allusion to an illusion
That connects all of us
On this rock
In the expanse of space
Which itself is in even more space.
You can tie Styrofoam on a string
And say that this is what the world is
But people will still call it flat
And the globe an illusion
Blaming the higherups
Who somehow can steamroll a planet
Saying I’ll believe it when I see it.
They want to see the rabbit
Not the hand.
