Another day, these double-dozen heads it dregs aloft again

Another day, these double-dozen heads it dregs aloft again,
nodding or shaking; candelabra which some vital wind,

obscured behind the quivered bulk of vision, whisper-flicks
this way, or that, or else some other, as the chance elects.

Heavy with self, one glimpses mostly that. What is of use?
Enlarge my empire, its flourished thoroughfares, loose

runnels clogged sclerotic with expanding self to fill these
days, this garbage heap of presents only half-received.

Abstraction is born on day’s conveyor-belt; repetitive stress
yawning out again its regimen of fractal chintz, except

that mind’s kaleidoscopic twists craft vistas, infinite,
hewn views from changeling oils: beaded, coursed and lit.

Each triggerhair of vision has its scope, a shrapnel
splash of filings chambered calm before the bang of Apple,

Eye, and Ray: the bullet’s gaze honed down. Any line
desires onely Everything; all squall & sprawl of motley time

oblonging darkly for a single prize—symmetrically to shut
up self in dim dimensioned squint—wanting to brush

bright panoramas into sight’s corners, to hold them: embers
lit without the lick of motive. Edges once limber end here;

end, that is, wherever here is scribed. What’s actual is sketch;
de-lineates itself: sight’s scrawl, a ghost of layered percepts.

Our eyes want grasp & thus a shape; their lids, euclidean,
zodiac the bric-a-brac of bodies, sing—O fit me in,

empyrean, among your ferris-wheel of forms—dead center,
null hub pronouncing its confines as cause & answer.

Here are your parts, O hours, it indicates: a ramshackle Cast
extracted from my side: this meadow-choir, Grass-shafts,

a bending patch of cilia above/beneath the Hickory’s
dendritic click. The mind as silt: black earth, black orrery—

Stone sockets pocked at lonely intervals throughout, an
interpolated blossom of reflections, foamy-crested Mountains

tippling up to Moon, the logical cloud around us curled.
Do we impose our visions on the world, or does the world

reveal us, gradually, as clustered portions of its patterning?
Either way, each seaming solid sight is fraught with yearning,

graved in flaming, subtle lineaments. My self & other
selves strung out, lined up, articulated like the sentence of

a stuttering deity: “…I…I…I…I…,” serrated cry
limned into type-cast characters that mar the music by

omitting difference. No I is equal to another; each is
formed and forms within its singular address, reaches

through its buoyant cell-skin &, nourished, becomes
alive again: volleyed between vacuum & continuum,

guessing which is home. I balance dizzy on trajectories,
alight on breezes, ever blind to what their vector is.

In this same way, I bore into the day, its billion limbs &
nodes: the host whose face I never wholly glimpse.