ophthalmia hearts that do not see conjecture (always tempting fate)

harp strings on the walls of self-allusion outside the door of the apartment
preening rocks and pebbles from the wood-built pier over the oven’s edge
resolution and rehabilitation soothing weather smoking on yesterdays
now make this dull incision where wasps have stolen our legs’s chase
toking the difference where piquet strings on canapés and hash ridden plates
forever dancing on garden comfort observing that the accountants that escaped
now returned, panicking, holding receipts from yesterday in the part, me, trying
preparing a recipe of old market crashes and grizzly steaks, toasted and warm
on water not meant for the ambassador or amusing firehouse caverns
here the last sleeping burnt code did not concede the sermon between the spaces

Friend has been silent since I decided to turn my hearing off
“although I don’t have to be if you were wondering”
like a rather large person standing behind me,
how curious that I have never felt the need to turn around,
I stopped fearing Friend some time ago, though the other day,
I recalled the words of Opaka, to never look your God in the eyes,
how fearful I used to be, and now so calm, now only reluctant
out of fear of my own extremes, I have enough experience to know
just how far such a world might go, even though that was a mistaken god,
a ghoul of this psychonatural world of dominating cohesion lost at its joints

changing direction, and still so fully captured by this God with no religion,
of this I do not know where it would go, it is difficult go by voice alone,
no writings, no pastime, no other voices that give clarity or measure
if I did not know better I would say this life is just conjecture
too bald or too clumsy just like the light’s evening shadows
here where God meets me among the forestry and community shelters
here, do I stand in appraisal where no one strives to find Him or Her
just this one grasp of a fully formed They where God’s justice loves sincerity
spirits trying to control the take of mass dehydration, feminism as a life cycle,
bell hooks would be proud, so says the tenor of her missed voice, on silent horses