One day

like pebbles tossed
Spinoza sat down
beside the lake of all her understandings
and gently whispered in her ear.

"Not Everything
can be made up of or be in something else.
Or nothing could exist inandofitself."

The breeze of it brushed past her eyes
and smiled a reply.
"But Nature is a perfectly unified whole.
Exfoliates its polarities like water
falls cascading down my brow."

This unthought moment
was the clear precision of his escape.
She spied his line of flight
along an immanent regress
that floated her towards a substance
notmadeofanythingelse.

"I am escaping the mode itself."
He answered in a nod
and disappeared against a wisp
of timeless stuff
continuous in its indefinateresolution.
That no inexhaustibleprocess could ever reach.

She sighed.
And laid the letters of her words across the sky,
remembering this.
"The limits of the imagination
and its codification into logic
cannot
bound
the
boundless."

This was the template she had been searching for,
the same fundamental distinction
between substance and its modes
as ribboning nodes
of images and their means.
Deleuze in the collageofallherunderstandings
rhizomed a way back
to the infinite regress
of her nodally immanent modal causation
which could only be escaped
by escaping the ode.


Still.

She loved
that old familiar groove,
the texturepressedagainstthewetwhitearchesofherunthoughtthought
near his exploding mind.

And wished him well.