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  1. Poems/

18q21.32 (A vision)

It is because I occupy
this spot and not those ribbed
beyond blood’s bounds, the bright lip

of my eyes and their admissions,
giving and taking in curious elisions:
shadows’ blur and carvature. A mind divides

touch from distance, cinches
these with datastrings, a stippled ribbon
too thin to gather what it’s given.

It is to ladle stars out of the tide,
out of the squinted evening sifting,
that I’ve waited to receive a Vision,

i.e. be hijacked by another’s sight, dipped
in twisted vistas where a sun robed purple
heaves lightning blaring up through the cracks.

But daily to feel your eyes instead imbibe
my face, a matter of fact, mere blip
smiled by among abrupt the hectic cycles;

to shrink among your thoughts’ hubbub,
the only visions these revolving blurbs
the bulleted news I try to occupy…

Sights fill us only if we’re cut in half, trapped
as one raw petal in the thicket-barbs
of all perspectives pinning each occurrence,

each moment’s me, small as it is
and infinite as it receives.
My ringed life lit beyond the bands of sight.

What slender we can nab from the High Dimensions
unhasps ripe, bearing their insignias.
If we talk in the kitchen peeling clementines

or walk into the jackpines scabbed with sap,
we gain dimension tracing ghosts, palpable
yet, delicate tread of moons across our ebbing

calendars. Dot by line, our freckled cheeks absorb
radiance at the edges, where absence & light oppose
to form all shapes our eyes can gracious catch

and make into the act itself of sight:
horizon’s haloed razor, the sea’s veins rising,
and your face. Your face, which love incises

glaring back within my own: iconic
and quizzical; sour, slaphappy,
balancing my hell with casual aplomb.

To you again my fractured gaze unites. Beside.
To see together is to make revisions,
to peekaboo a future into view surprising.

Knowing you needs be nimble, arcing a divide
from focus to forget. Remember me when I go missing,
keep the lines lively as you draw me in, in prisms.

If all directions can converge on each blip
of gridded space, and each blip stir and probe
in all directions, rippling outward cyclic,

then we are reliquaries of each other, supple
of sense to counterpoise and not oppose:
each kiss a flowering asterisk, a choice.

What am I here? Among the blur and bump
and curling scenery, let me appear
daily within the circle

of your sight. The sun subsiding,
color in the space of me I cannot finish.
You see my blindness, be my guide.