One entanglement creates another,
Lives, meadows, forests, cities, circuitry
All derived from the same mess of wires spooled
Out of the furnaces of attraction.
In sleep, the thing that is not me dreams
Until I rouse myself to mistake it
For some sidereal commentary
On an existence that it only rings.
And what it dreams of, recently, begins
In a mansion of innumerable rooms--
Could be a king's palace, could be a tree--
Where there is never enough light to see
But every cavernous wall is covered
From dark floor bottom to dark ceiling join
With bank upon bank of dials and switches
That modulate the flickering story
Fluttering down from a roof that might be
A planetarium or actual
Stars too far away to be convincing.
And any one switch could turn off the lights.