Your eye is as big as a lunar parasol.
Well, that belongs to the world of sand.
I don’t really believe it.
It’s just too—well, shall I say it?—grand.
But the holy mushroom spread across the vast expanse
Of every eye of time and space
And it crawled under my skin
And broke the veins of movement and place.
And that is the least of the least of the praise
Of the good harmony that reverberates
From the undulating light
Spinning ever outward from an infinitude of spinning plates.
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Yaacov David Shulman