The inner self is
much like a darkened room.
Furniture layed out, in places known,
and you walk around, or sometimes stumble.

A long forgotten meal, all crumbs and rinds,
but for that half unfinished strawberry cake, in the
center
of the plate.

And books once read,
lie blurry lined
as memory fades.

But the most surprising thing,
or amongst them,
is the camera obscura,
that paints the inside
from the out.

Not that, we don’t have frequent
peerings
(pairings?)
out windows of the … the eyes,
you know.
Binocular truths,
agreed upon by
lens and frame.

No.

It is the unintended
unlooked for
or caught out of the corner of
intention
pinhole
that disassembles my
mind
Changes spaces
into here
and now
altogether different
All different.