​

The peepholes in my skull
afford a limited view.
Ahead: ten thousand opaque, finite things.
Behind: black-blind and vulnerable.

Dartsparks, 
in a globe of bone
are strapped to a fleshy toy,
a broken device,
until it slows, stops, cools,
until it is cloaked, burned, buried;

light,  
so long bushelled and ill-defined
blossoms to Panorama, 
tethered to no dogma,
unfatigued and unbounded,
aligned,
absorbed into One.