I think you might like this conversation, in Stillness, between Carol Burbank and I;
I can hear you.
All of it, you say, is mind.
None of it is real.
Not the hand
or the touch of the hand.
Not the webbed fingers
or the spirals at the heart of touch.
No matter what the measure
it will fail you
just as it fails the machine test
of the ticking space we pace.
It is not in the mitochondria.
It is not in the sperm or the egg.
It is not in the vault of books.
It is not in the savory gust of song.
It is not in the motherís breast.
It is not in the hem of your coat.
It is not there.
It cannot be held or known.