I was thrown in it
as with every good story
in the middle of it all, the room already
awash with external light—
though there is no outside to speak of,
I do not know of it at that moment.
Unaware of how I got to where I am:
the bowl of peaches in the kitchen table
sitting just so, and you—not yet a thought
that it was not you
but a trick, and like the light,
it was only untrue after the fact—
you were a clear and vivid image—
strange, yes, but only in retrospect—
deprived of haze that consciousness lays upon it.
I believed it was your hands that held a peach.
The lips on its skin, surely yours.
It was the white of your teeth
bruising the fuzz, without a doubt.
Of course, none of it is real now—
now as the fact of your absence in the world here
takes precedence, as it always did,
in situations where it mattered,
although where it mattered is only a matter of law
and not a matter of reality, which law
can fabricate however one wants it to be,
for instance, in dreams and in poetry.
So it remains true after all:
What matters to the waking world
only stands true to those awake.