Our expectation that how what we see
is a priori everybody’s optical reality
begs us, when we discover we are wrong,
to ask the gods who wrote this song
why what appears to someone’s vision bright
to someone else’s seems devoid of light –
why shapes which seem to me more vague
than fog will clog your vision in a plague
of edgy scraps in painfully exact detail.
Sigh? Meet wail. How does this avail?
“We don’t write the song of sight,” the gods reply.
“You write it every night. Inside your eye.”