Is everything we think
we know as certain truth
             a metaphor we make
             between our capable hands
and our heads? We recognize
resemblances, and whatever
             we do or see is like
             something we did or saw
before, and isn’t it strange
to realize we’re repeating
             ourselves, working and dreaming
             in tandem, in ways
we’re trying to give names to
as we bring our cupped palms
             full of cold water
             up against our faces

and feel the chilling 
relief of lifelessness
           and shut our eyes
           and try to blink it away
as if we might be happy
to have a clearer look
           again at what’s going on
           around us in broad daylight.