making it real

silk is spun
carpets are woven
caravans ply the spice trade
nomads roam in no man’s land

elusive touching
upon the ethereal woman
guised and reguised
 in diaphane 
against the night sky
he  hungering among the ruins
 of Xanadu
whets her appetite
for intangibles

the sharpened blade of mind 
 slices through  the veil
now rent   the scales fallen
clear eyed  the seer seeks  reality 
among objects uncertainly
positioned to give solid appearance
to  passing waves
 in the phenomenologist’s landscape
all this dung   word-shaped
by the hermetic’s hand

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