on this day / or any other

& no it’s not a landscape painting

I’m talking about a prospect wherein

vision gets unhooked from the sockets. & no it’s not

a love song about blindness or the way

she moves. rather it is standing

in the midst of nothing & the wind passing

since seeing was always a curse, the boundary

between things floating

up to foil how anyone might touch

or travel. unless we can find a non-

delineated dance proliferating otherwise

in the unhasty unfolding of we’re already there

à la Hegel re: Kant, & not like

that Caspar David Friedrich painting either

(some solitary man-figure surveying

what was already his so it becomes his again)

but instead unvisioning the world, not like

Heidegger, obviously, not the thing at hand

but like the hand repeating a motion

forever, writing her beloved like this is politics

this is the end of all endings

& the wind