the eyes and their drone
seizing down
a vision -

this jar of clay
  is molded to its finite figure,
and when it is done,
   we delight in its exactitude.

it is just like any other
  languorous toil
yet i am less of what i am,
    and more of what i see.
how penetrating is the mundanity!

  these conjured appendages
  storm over this lockdown
  of phases and transitions,
  and the next thunder of words
  shall hoard in their immense
  hands palpable presciences;

ah, without eyes, what to make
  of everything? their boldnesses
    go unseen, their reticences
  remain to be something lulled
   out deeper trekking no contrivance,
    and i, livid in living,
shall only saunter through slackened space and only that -
   passing quickly, even the
shatter of moonlight and
   no words are born.