Infrasonic Booty Call

Grey fragments are what we are
given of the world
cold slivers, distortions
delivered through our senses
what more must there be than
sight, sound, smell,
flavor and touch
scarce sensations
revealing only what was
gun smoke is seen
before the report heard
the shot light hitting our eyes too late
we live, literally, in the past
existence is a disobedient slave
manacled in a dungeon where bio-luminescent fungi
crawl the walls, shedding the only light
what the eagle sees twitch
two miles off in the grass – we cannot
see from within inches
what the whales call infrasonically
through hundreds of miles of sea
we can’t hear at all
what our pet dog smells:
a nasal universe
more complex, awesome, vibrant
than anything dreamt under our dead nose
the flower the bee sees is not ours
the shape of reality the bat maps is not ours
spectrums flee our vision
we are stranded in a micro-band of sense
lost, weak, victims of delusion
certain of our triumph
our ultimate place in the big picture
the part of it we, at least,
are capable of seeing
one we pray was stroked by a divine brush
even while our senses scream
at the sub-audible edges of denial

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