subtext

The curtains hang slack,

I know. Yet, I see them flow

undulant along the threads

like glaciers retracting north.

As if under water, I watch the words

painted on our walls ripple, divide,

and replicate: parallel, yet askew

to any rational point-of-view.

I open my notebook, and pull back.

What I see of the world cannot be

anymore than a saint’s dry vision

clawed across a cavern’s wall.

What I know is what I see,

and everything is blurred.