This world is a glove

In the space between, it's easier to see an all.
That tree, that cat, those people.
Perhaps only as different from each other
as the pinky on my right hand
from my left thumb
from my ear.

What, in this world, is reincarnation?
What sense does it make to think of switching places,
When you lose the illusion of discretely separate lives?

The surface of this world is like a glove,
that life wears when it goes out.
What sense does it make to think of switching fingers?

keep waking

He told me of his dreams
Of how they're nightmares.
Of how he doesn't want to sleep.

I do not want to sleep,
Because I fear that I'll have dreams,
From which I do not want to wake.

What shall I do, but return to cultivating the space
between stimulus and response
in which a pilgrim soul may wander?