How Do We See What Is Hidden?

Let the edges blur.
A triangular way in.
Perhaps there is no way in.
Consider the edges.
A dark click.
Look up.
There is a bright shelf in the ceiling,
call it thought.
Stop thinking of time as a fever,
or even as a bloom.
Let time be a wild root.
Or a monster’s careful
and ongoing notes in the dust under the bed.
Or a wrecked armada.
Freelance there.
In a waiting space.
In the huge haiku
of a single, testing breath.