Mind; that nebulous cloud,
is not what we suppose it to be.
It is not between our ears or eyes,
that is merely a rented room.
Its lodgings are everywhere.
Mind may reside in a starry hotel
circling a solar plexus,
but even that place
is only a transitory tent.
Mind is not gray brain-matter,
not a constant twitching of neurons
rooted to a branching spinal cord.
When Mind leaves its borrowed homes
it overwhelms any thought of size or shape,
just as the notion
of a man-made image of God
comically underwhelms.
The keeper of this drunken tavern of Mind
serves love in thimblefuls
but each one is deep enough
for any brain to drown within.