The Others

The Others
---- Big Frank Dickinson

You look at a tree and might wonder -
what's going on inside that tree,
but that's so far beyond your grasp,
and even if it weren't how could you
ever express it to anyone else,
much less to yourself.

You look at the person standing next to you.
You talk to your best friend, you make love
with your partner. Then ask yourself:
what's going on in there? Do I have
any idea whatsoever, or am I duplicating
a version of myself, or perhaps creating
a version of them - but only my version.

Are we variations on a theme? We can agree
on so much: the color of the grass, the
sound of the wind in the leaves, the feel of skin
on skin, the rise of anger, the pang of loss,
and the fullness of love and joy.

But are these merely construction materials,
and our assumptions about the building as
far off as guesses of a structcure made
from an inventory of wood, steel, and cement?
There are so so many wholes that can emerge from the parts.

Who are you? If I glimpsed within would I find anything familiar?
If you took just a peek, would it be understood in any way?
Are we all simulacrums of everyone else,
or is each one of us unsimulated?