At night, with my eyes inured to the dark, I flash the lights on.

Photons converge to blind me, parade to illuminate my optic nerve,
a flare – I am a film negative, colors inverted until I adapt and am
once again rightly defined,

trillions of sucking pulsating vortices,
the pointillism of the actual corrects itself;

in the time it takes, in that gap, I am postured, the interim, neither.

Chagall 2019