Where is the Real World
There was a broken circle in my field of wheat this morning.
Can’t explain it.
Walked through the wheat scratching my head with a stalk.
Can’t explain.
There are shapes in the circle, shapes which look like
the shapes and spaces of this world. Lands and seas.
Can’t explain them.
Fell asleep in the scratchy stalks of my field in the sunshine.
Can’t say why.
Awoke in England, I think, lying there, floating above it,
I think.
Lying here, drifting away, like a balloon out of control,
but avoiding the sun and the stars and the other worlds.
I think.
Or am I lying below, in my field with my heels on the ground?
Difficult to know.
Hard to discern this place and know my place in it.
Can’t explain
why I’m floating here, unsure if I’m drifting above or below.
I might fall. I might fall up or down. I don’t know which.
Can’t explain my confusion.
But, I’ll know when I stop spinning round, seeing the stars
in the sunshine.
But how will I get down if I’m already below, my heels grounded
in reality,
in England, in my field of wheat, scratching my head, looking,
up at the shapes in the space of the sky drifting above me.
Can’t explain.
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