Drove into the deciduous yesterday
and ate every shade a litle lighter than usual.
A plucked-up priesthood of branches and wind-regulated wisdoms
lets you moving into morning—
inside an early velvet there is purple fog and raspberry birdsongs
each can be tasted through glass and baseboards and tuperware.
In the distance a relentless ocean pushes, pushes, pushes
Small rocks into smaller rocks
heavy blue hands cradle kelp in a meticulously effortless balance.
The crabs observe each occurrence without tilting their horizontal faces
and about all this, say nothing at all.
Subjectivity—what exactly happens in the process of seeing:
See the skin and the scales pulling back,
don’t muffle it with calloused measurements,
sensations filtered through the lenses most raw
defy the 5-fingered separation of impressions.
Fresh skin responds to salt and temperature,
susceptible as the surface of a hungry tongue,
a small pang might translate into taste
or at least a new synthesis of seeing.