The poem, the piece of music, the theorem, /unpolluted presences born of the void, / are delicate structures / built over an abyss... This morning I crossed onto familiar land recognized only by recalling the shape of a traumatized tree and the sharp bend in a path. Perhaps the universe is "an image without an original," like Ryoanji's rocky islands floating on waves of mindfully raked sand. Perhaps Mercury's magnetic fields, rocky terrain, searing heat, and shadowy holds of ice, are the Trickster orbiting the Sun in his iron shoes, sparking the void into spasms of pulsing light. Stones have been tossed into shapes that make sense when philosophy is thought into the earth where seeds are anxious to sprout, and veil again in green the "heap of broken images" of this suddenly barren land.