Does it exist when others are not looking?
Does it have more than two sides?
What if Botticelli’s Venus lived next door?
What if you actually loved Marie Antoinette?
What if Adonis had rather be dead?
I am not sure about these things.
A question has many faces and names.
It often gets trapped in a semiotic loop.
It is a secret even to you.
It does not really concern us,
Only our being. It is whatever we are
And more. It is everything there is
And nothing else. It persists without us
Except maybe for the indentation we left
In the grass. I just wanted to leave a note.
A lemon in a stainless steel bowl
Does not cease to be whatever it is
When a mind stops thinking of it.
How softly can I say it so you will hear it?
You are a secret even to me.