It is not a matter of variation.

It is my life that I am speaking of here.

Each thing perfectly specific.

Even the same chair

at a different time of the same day

receives me

anew

brand new.

I couldn't look back 

through images

brandished of every moment

by some new light and say

"this chair, then"

and be right.

but

that one

then

That was the truth of it.

that was my life

- every single moment of it

a visible, propagating

 mystery.

interrupting my scribbles about my funky pics

another great one (that needs a keen eye) from my almost-boss, George, in Montclair.  cool guy.  great niche!

Fortune

You can touch it,
hold it in your hand

bending plane of fate

How does it feel?
Ask yourself that.

Or ask yourself
whatever you like.

You can see through it,
sometimes.

Sometimes the miracle
is just that you can touch

touch anything
and ask yourself

whatever you like.

It is six in the morning

The blue-winged warblers have been singing 

since long before

the holding darkness

began to give way, 

leaf by leaf,

 to sweet and sweeter color.

The mist rises

as it does

as does hope

as do the bodies

living

housing hope

rising to see

whatever comes next.

Even then you were there
as sentinel
essence
unattainable idea

Still, as only the dead can be,
with the world
crashing down around

Dead?
Or, not yet born?
Perhaps neither

Just the idea
pure

Undisturbed by the hard reversal
of fortunes

Needing no ground below
Nor sky with stars above

Idea
Not homeless
without a home

Glowing
Rich

Impossible model

dancing shadow
of origination