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