Beyond the seeing

In all of what sight brings

there always is this,

a coming from afar,

a coming into focus,

a coming into frame,

as recognition would chaperone,

some sense of very looming

but forthcoming as it is.

Initially it abounds

yet not fully graspable.

It is possibly in clear resolution

but maybe camouflaged

in some unfamiliar way.

It wholly seems to appear.

It maybe subtle and detailed,

some elements still distant.

It is forwardly present

yet seemingly fleeting.

It is not totally unidentified

yet still impending

further identification.

It is substantial

but somehow imminently faint.

It is not yet fully articulated

though possibly extremely refined.

Focus can never make it pose.

Recognition cannot capture it.

For what I could have wanted

it to be?

My expectation for certitude

is eventually long abandoned.

It is what it is.

Could I have settled

for an accompanying disclosure?

Do I see it in an ambivalent light?

Is every seeing a wax museum

of melting expectations?

Is this a technical soup surface

of visual vagueness?

Is there a sense of scale

or function not yet realized?

I am vastly trained for wanting,

identification, and certainty.

I worked with emptiness

but maybe not for it.

I became

my own ‘seconding’ confirmation

over nothing that is of itself for sure.

This consumes me with a mindset

of how to manage my warehouse

of ‘identifieds’.

I am perplexed

that some thing is out there,

definitely out there,

I am sure of it

but I can’t make it come into sight.

I can’t demand its documentation.

I am being eroded from certitude.

It is uncomforting but conditional

to feel so unsure.

It is an unsettling state

that senses cannot provide.

It is disquieting to a busy mind.

It is disconcerting

to have come this far

by this as means.

I seem ill equipped

but to pretend the beyond.

It could be a god, an alien,

an artifact, or an omen.

It is disturbing

that ‘not knowing’ looms along.

That if there is an it,

it won’t shake hands

or converse in some familiar way.

There is no front door,

no parcel sense or size.

It is inimitable,

inquiry with no means.

It may have deeper levels

or only secret passage.

It may be soulless

or only soul!

How one can one be

and not be of this silence shared?

There is a vast of beckoning

beyond the seeing, preordained . . .