Cataract

I
Unsure of what to do,
as direction only is as true
as depths which show
us where not to go,
we pool our collective sight
in the haloes and
the tipping points of night,
and then try to stand
where the jagged dreams
of rocks might end.

II
Unsure of how or where,
blind streams know
that beds can bear
only dreams of snow,
but slip when they’re allowed
into pools of sun and cloud,
where, vaporized,
they rise up to find
where the blinders of the eye
might bind.

May 20th, 2023