maybe what I saw was the earth’s shadow rise up a cloud turning it toward the top pink then fading that back to gray      then night. then maybe I think I see. too much. the tiniest gradation      of  detail squeezed from attention by the choke hold on thin air     for the sublime     a blessing. when life stinks and your eyes have to take it in      to live.   and your eyes have to take it in to live the exact instant you need      to jump out of  the way.     to safety or see danger’s vulnerable spot and hit it. your eyes have to think through what they are seeing     to see how measure measures itself when you are in it      against you to match or dis- entangle that nascent not null of  difference.     maybe what I see is down to the continuum     where what it is is what it is     one thing undifferentiated all except as     the surface of one perfect sphere its paris and buenos aires the same     place.   What it is     is what is seen without observer. it is     that said   what it is. exo-existent thought.     without outside. there are lines     as of  poetry of  information between us     though. resonant.     structure. what is     asleep when we turn the lawn mower on if  only the pieces we think something has caught it for— the turning of  attention to. the turning of  the earth.      the earth is what is     turning. there is no setting of  the sun          down.   of  the sun down some inclination to impact at our feet as fact we stand to have written by being here— the rocks have source saying the same. except they translate silent. the word of  the wind itself      spoken everywhere has the version of  it all as well as of  not happening … the sun doesn’t move.      its designation. what it is pushes forward the appearance. and behind— the eastern shadow rising of  the sun’s soft down down. its paris and buenos aires a same place. what it is   is what is seen without observer.   not the thing itself the quality of  the hold      on things the choke   hold on the neck of the calling     bird may be the goddamn of  jacob’s ladder     what it is could be the hands in the air     air time of  the better roller coasters pulled out     all stops     the no hold bar & café take out.     item name on the menu— the ladder being an upward clearer approach to step. the life     the breath. of an answer.     the questioning.   I     eye     iamb     I am watching the sky     read the line below it     the landscape get shaken by storm. a ring iamb married into bone dance     stone crazy. claws of  geese shadow scratching wild song across the sky. Malakal potemkin waking gun we’re off on.     the morning fred hampton   the bobbing flock of the 1999 boy in the inner tube float up on the 100th anniversary of  the race riot along lake shore drive     the commuters no idea what it is.     they say it is what it is.   anger     joy     disgust    sadness     fear are all mountains raising in the sky an aire     jump up shout sound shape song response as not if  but is one body. even among themselves at some distance. all one sphere     one point a sense of  time can be that distance’s familiar but the mind can empathize itself  that size the dreadlocks of  black holes                     where the anger digests itself the joy carries its brother sadness also over and fear realizes it’s ok and the rains come     the forests     the  jungles     the birds!