Tarrying here, in gloom among glass, I become the soul-searcher reaching into corners of eyes that cannot do the round-eyed impossible they ask. They torture me in this semiotic, dark breath of hell//breadth of hell. A or B? B or A? One or two, better? Questions leap through my visual field— constellation of wonderment, migraine aura, circus of doubts. All my training in realism anti-realism, existentialism, ontology, metaphysics did not teach me how to answer. I read the ancient script carved on my brain: L P E Q O C G F—these wisdoms reverberate in ancient temples that worship only the daimon of headaches, touchstones for body struck down: the moment after everything crashing as thunder, everything searing as lightning. The place, hushed in artificial dawn, tells me the normal I can never know. They wrestle these odd-shaped slits; they bring the storm down. Illumination I am purified as glass. I am the one or two, the two or three. My mother's voice is a camera flash in the gloom. "Maria, open your eyes!" I respond, I always respond, "They are open!"
here, in glass, I soul-search into corners of eyes that cannot do the impossible ask. in this dark breath of hell//breadth of A or B? B or A? better? Questions leap through visual field— constellation of, migraine doubts. All my training in ism, anti-ism, ism, ology, sic did not teach me to read the ancient brain: L O G—wisdoms in ancient temples worship head stone for body: the moment after crashing searching This place in artificial dawn, the normal I know: wrestle these shape the storm. Ill I am purified as one or two, two or three. My voice a flash in the open always
