Outside these ridges, there is blur. 


Wisped irresolution, unfocused wonderings—

Prints of unknown things

fuse in my periphery, 

rim my sight with inquiries, 

a halo of curious colors

a glance from distinction. 


Remain sideways from foresight. 

Encircle me in cloudy palettes, 

questions and catechisms. 


Let me daydream in fog, 

eye roll from focus—

a prescribed perspective—

and muse in my blindness, 

the mud crusting my eyes. 


This blur, a visceral framework. 

A constellation—I sketch in obscurity. 

Form shapes from the smears,

on canvas of cloud tufts. 


My lens, a crutch. 

Prosthetic. It bends beneath 

the weight of my imaginings.