Stretches of imagination
that attempt to guess another's thoughts
are less real than wisps of wind
on a calm day.

No rope and grapple
can fly from me to you
so that I may climb into your mind
and have tea with your thoughts,
and genuinely become
acquainted with your heartfelt
intentions.

Instead some spark trips
or some chemical pulse fires
and a green or red ball bounces
in my solitary ball pit,
and I guess,

because our thoughts are as alone
as a dormant black hole--
as a pinch and a pull on a tarp
that imprison all balls in one pit--
that not even a moan is always true.

And yet the madcap still laughs at me
and cries, "You think you know, you think you know!"