A Mote to Trouble

The meaning behind the door is adventitious.
I don’t capably know what that means,
but I know the poem is unbidden.
It might be an angel or a mouse,
and only the latter might be swinging
a flaming sword. Who knows with mice?
It might be advantageous to be a meow
as well, Wittgenstein, behind a door of this sort
encountered in deep grammar, invisibly
unfolding within a place of talking, flexure
like a dragon’s knees or elbows. It’s not the truth
of a photograph, but rather the weight
of an apple in the hand of the mind.
Of course, there is a phantom hand,
or how else would you know what an apple’s weight
feels like when not an apple? The hand physically
before you is something else altogether,
the thing that holds a dagger, that floats you
down a talking hallway and cannot understand
itself but only follow, as Macbeth found out and so will you.