What you’re reading is not what I’d have written
a while ago as I tracked lines
and dots and dashes, a veritable
Morse code whenever I opened my eyes.
The curlicues and ciphers careened,
bewildered my horizon line
blurring what lay ahead.
I cursed each shooting star, each swooping detour.
Now I seek them out, looking for the contrails left
behind by my condition, my darting glances finding patterns
in their semaphores, messages to help me see
what I’ve been missing.
There is a beauty to the cloudy spiders, the pulled
threads, the black dots banishing the idea of centering.
I let go of there and linger here, seeing r’s and t’s switch places, adding u,
virtuously rising up as quickly as my floaters do.
