“Things as they are,”
Who would proffer such hubris?
We, who spend half our lives
In sleep, in vulnerable comas,
Whose brains and thoughts
Are cased in hermetic fortresses
Infinite miles away from the “real”.
We, who from these personal galaxies
Can only attempt proxy (language)
Damned to describe.
We, who touch only through fleshy gloves,
We, who only reproduce the world through watery orbs,
Never in contact.
There they are,
Things as they are.
There is no “contact” or “directness”
Because it is not “things” but