Living Outside Accuracy
Living outside accuracy, waiting for death
To hold our eyes back to us to make aware.
Years of gazing at insatiate mirrors―a recognition motif,
Distort the sweet pride of our physiognomy
To a vulnerable and rending wound
Of wearing the body inside-out, up-down,
Sweating blood devotion that hopes and hopes more
For something other, ready to orphan itself out of cheer:
A deception of seeing eyes plunging free
Into the sky to end up drowning in a sea,
A betrayal of a sniffing nose on a stinkweed
Mistaken for honeysuckle at a striking synced speed,
A menace of small furies such as quick ashing
Patches of dry grass that don’t inspire to action,
The conflagration of a wildfire. Over and again, we lose
Because of being too cooped up in intransigent views;
Unwilling to be a scrupulous and supple towel
Gathering without blurring the outline of skin―avowal,
Learning the face contours, bundles of hair sighs,
And to only miss in its exactness, open eyes.
But wincing at this man-made wound is all we do
Trying not to fall apart enduring as inside-out in few.
