I am the mountain against the shattered panes of glass;
dynamic quests for focus leaving
a viewer head-tilted
more confused than ever.

Dawn mist
lit amber saffron, sweeping
streaming willowing between
fern slopes.

Still slopes.

As still as possible.

The more still they are
the more out of focus I become;
unfixed light years
cast shaken on shattered panes of glass.

I am peripheral
entree: only seen
by release of vision; only heard
by the deaf and silent; only loved
by the head-tilted.



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