writing
There are those of us who see
a brilliance in the night,
when it shoots across the sky.
Who celebrate joy.
The distant flash to back of eye.
There are those of us who see
invisible vista, an after image.
The trail of debris,
scattering to ground.
A swoop of countless
miniatures, meteors, too.
Dust in the wake.
Descending without light.
For those of us who celebrate.
A lightning strike,
it's magic upon our retina.
There are those
that harvest the inhaleable
precipitate,
post,
left in the air.
For those of us an
alphabet is enough.
There are those that see
numbers diverse and
larger than measure.
For those of us of ritual
and desire to be certain.
There are oppose
and dispersal of the frame.
For those of us
that aim at things,
with hope our sight is true,
Those of missed content
Don't give a fuck
what they do.