"philosophical" reverie (or -- letter to Fatima)

Have you noticed how things are there --
a flower, a building, an illness, an emotion?
There with such a blithe and rooted being?
Even the objects and manias of night dreams
are woven into an incantation of substance.

That flower you strolled past when not thinking,
just looking into its soft register of form and color...
that building of concrete, aluminum, and glass,
just considering its textures, reflections, volumes...
that illness when pain comes into our strange bodies,
just lying in a clarity of fevers and time deferred...
that emotion like music swallowing blood and bones,
just letting it have its duration of voracious appetite.

And yes, the areas and plots where a dream happens,
just wondering vaguely why you are a character there.

But given all those things as givens,
have you on occasion gone beyond
this rooted trance of days and nights...
leaned toward a structure suspiciously
hiding behind veils of mystic shyness...
glowing without light, subtler than Kant
or Schopenhauer or Heidegger or Derrida...
a semiotics without shape or suggestion,
only breathing an untellable significance?

I think you have gone beyond things of there.
That's why I'm writing you my peculiar fantasia.