Emily Dickinson did not reside here, where leaves kiss shadows and eaves whisper about summer to the remains of grit that gets washed away in the rain of cloud convictions. Yeats never told her about the window that looks back at the reflected trees. So why is it that they seem to be waving at the camera in a poetic frenzy of twisting line breaks, like an uneven stanza, a stratification of emotional confusion ?
Here are Pareidolia Parasols
for high wire walkers
roof repair workers
in the bright sun,
as rays of certainty hurl down upon their heads,
with the verity of gravity’s grasp.
Unwanted facts, quickly approaching –
from the shouting horizon –
brings on vertigo in existential deniers .
Too much emotional distortion
rises in the air,
as the refractive index
causes truth to bend
when it enters and exists in opinionated thoughts –