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Believing myself to be
not just 'a' but the
Universe, so long as I breathe,
so long as I see
as far as the stars, which, of course,
will cease to be
when they cease to be me -
how can I dismiss
(as I do) as frivolous
that act that gives delight
to children in the night,
that even with two
together remains
a solipsism, and yet
gives birth nonetheless
to another Universe?
This is a mystery.
How the complexity
of a sensibility
is repeated a million,
a billion, a trillion
times and yet
is never the same,
and all in a fine
fury that resembles
a devouring flame
that fills us with pride
and yet which we hide
because it fills us with shame.