3:33

Shadows of tree branches on the window
cut the glaring sun-white brightness at 3:33:
like ghosts of some archaic neural network –
separated from some vaporous extinction –
etchily not there except as patterns in the air –

nothing is as beautiful as winter light.
I sit here once again dumbfounded, and yet
powerfully determined to find speech. I won’t
accept what I am told is obvious – that
capturing the whole, in words, is out of reach –

because it patently keeps proving that it isn’t.
The delirious experience of seeing, hearing,
feeling all the confluence in ambience
is absolute: it’s happening right now.
Break the thing down, head-on: say it! How?

.