A solid thing composed of space
Or concrete orchard, just suppose,
The dream of apple in its place
Elements arranged in a proof.
So we're as certain as the gates
Clicking in those corridors
Of our visual cortex like the fates.
Grained and solid thought on end
Glistens, familiar as four-by-fours,
Each edifice a lustral lattice:
Transparent rhombic doors in doors
Like Iceland spar's double vision.
The Demon of Reality
Alive as the idea of tree
Boxes our brain with sweet derision.