This Intramural Sport of Thinking

Playing fast and loose –

cavorting with morphology –
is only part of it:
this intramural sport of thinking

in late afternoon.
while lying down,
attuned to dim late winter air –
gazing upward,

with your glasses off,
at rare myopic visions
which assume unconscious
light is naturally part of sight:

its mixtures and bold certainties –
its brave exposures –
curtains ripped wide open
on enfolding limbs and faces;

heads and fingers lingering
a moment – point to – hold –
new suppositions –
briefer in this ether

than the clunky calculations
you had labored over lately –
just this morning –
under rude fluorescent

lamps. Everything revamps:
regales. Color is outrageously
correct: until you get up,
and it pales.





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