Only corners of my eye
see the meaning of the sky-

not a telescopic vision,
but the blur of imprecision,

the endless blue whose depth and range,
on close inspection, never change,

whose atmospheric core of being
rewards the slightly hard of seeing,

like an ornithologist, whose blind
succeeds by being ill-defined,

or the morning cries of verbal birds
whose meaning comes from hints of words,

like the orange specimen that woke us,
a Monet when out of focus -

a respite from a world whose vice
lies in being too precise,

a pastel universe which passes
when I yawn and put on glasses.