Only corners of my eye

see the meaning of the sky -


not a telescopic vision,

but the blur of imprecision,


the endless blue whose depth and range,

on close inspection, doesn’t change,


whose atmospheric core of being

rewards the slightly hard of seeing,


like an ornithologist, whose blind

succeeds by being ill-defined,


or the morning cries of verbal birds

whose meaning comes from hints of words,


like the orange specimen that woke us,

a Monet when out of focus -


a respite from a world whose vice

lies in being too precise,


a pastel universe which passes

when we yawn and put on glasses.