As Real as Real

As Real as Real

Twilight is falling over the coast.
Already the moon is visible.

Out on the mud flats, several clam diggers
are hip deep in the high tide.
Across the water I hear them murmur
when the shifting breezes are right.

At the opposite shore of the bay,
beyond the docks, home lights come on.

I am thinking of the continuum,
primordial soup to postsolar cinder,
along which we are borne,

faintly hearing "now" from a clammer,

thinking how to visualize its substance,
an enormous tube with invisible confines,
an airway and/or a vehicle without controls,

hearing "her face,"

an illusion as real as real,
an amorphous memory of what is to come,

hearing "not me,"

"the principle of it,"

"a great-souled thing,"

"without thinking."