never wanted or
couldn't have turned
my head and glance away
so difficult to do
when there's no escape
from the sight unseen...
when bestowed the fly's
multifaceted pair of eyes
only one thing to do
when what isn't yet
or what's been again
grabs on to shoulders
whispers, shakes, then screams
they are the twinkles
that have traveled in time
in dark and cold and space
to show a figure drawn out
from dot to star to dot
penned upon cosmic sheets
they lurk in the ordinary
the everyday happenings
to be swallowed up unless
the sight's net plunges in
and pulls them safely
to digesting discernment
only then the pattern's path
unfolds the fern's bracket
in the warm Spring of view
only then are scriptures spared
and numbers flow freely
through the pollen laden air
never wanted or
couldn't have turned
away and missed the sight
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