Joy

What is joy but what we make?
Another view of the same shape.
A little twist, a figure eight.
Just twist for me, babe.

Meaning is meaningless in space.
And constellations don't know their names.
A solipsist has lost the game.
Nothing in the mind remains.

The only real I cannot see,
from vision to visionary
are quiet eyes when you look at me.
Are quiet eyes that see through me.