Diagonal blinds,
sun aims for the bench,
not me.
Margins offer sight,
dwelling on Bourgainvilleas.
Their periodic nature of willfulness
refuses a clean-up.
I stack my one pass through
against its one of tons—
its lines’ continuum,
grants it surprise to everyone.
I can get jolted
from what’s to come,
and boredom can come,
and fortune can come,
and wisdom can come,
with prisms that numb—
and that’ll be it,
done and done.