Descartes' Dream

By Richard Mather

I was a lonely cripple

Seeking shelter;

I heard thunder, saw fire.

Sleeping too much,

Snow on the rise.

My bones warm in an oven.

I am outside again,

Near the church entrance.

A whirlwind spins me round.

I fall on my knees, drag

Myself along the damp ground

Towards my own grave.

Is this the path I should take?

What of thinking?

I awake but I am still

Sleeping. What did

The thunder say? What?

Can geometry put

Flesh on the bone?

Can it save the soul?

I cannot feel without

My body.

What is it I know? What?

Innocent flesh dreaming

A fragile ego?

I am. I exist. That is certain.

Doubtful.