Out of Sight

Feb 14 2020

Careening, burning in and turning out
an afterimage, fast by rods and cones
slipped past my nerves, to mold my muscles ’bout
geometries of heart attacks and bones.
I feel you where, or when, or why, or how,
but not before an altar, not ornate,
and, if I know the meaning of it, now,
I must be dead; I cannot contemplate.
The simplest truths attract me to your ear,
by flight, by night, a reel without a kite.
Great Cat, forbid the dogged one appear
alike in being dogged for’ a sight.
I ask, “Is this my reason to regret?”
Turn slowly, if you haven’t seen it yet.

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