See what appears within the camera obscura:
A silhouette, a man, somewhere off to the side,
Not too well defined.
He is watching,
Patiently attending the light.
The moment is anticipated,
It drops by,barely noticed,and sidles off.
And all is quiet.
Meticulous hands are sifting,crafting,
Spying the unseen.
This watery business called living,
Might it not be,actually,all optical effects,
An angels’ fanfare on the retina?
The rapt eye knows no rest,
Adjusting shapes and sizes
To make them fit.
We need only atmospheres
To give ourselves airs,
Ineffable yearnings,and the like.
Tones and nuances
Tincture the soul,
As if there could be radiance
Suddenly,silently.
It is all in the light,
Or it is the light,
Those ultimate discretions
Whose filigree limns us,
Oblivious to time.
We find ourselves refracted and reflected.
This composition you live in
Turns out to be a mood.
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