Writing in a rigorous and intentional way...

See? It's out there, hiding behind that man's eye ~ See it, when he looks at me?
Now, it's there in the sentence of that book telling me something other than what I read.
No, it's in that fluttering one eyed machine, a message from the other side, can you hear it?
Didn't you feel it across your neck? Last Autumn, in it's whispering breath on the tailend of the storm?
No it's the singing in the lyric, the melody that makes you pine
I don't think so, it's probably in the colors in the painting,
the form of the sculpture,
the curve at the top of her inner thigh,
the eternal golden wheel turning, burning in the morning dawn
Smell it in the oven? It's in the roast crackling and permeating the olfactory nerve
that fires directly to the Hippocampus and holidays at Grandma's house.
There it is in a secret message at the top of the evergreen from the lung of a wren
It's in a baby or even a creek, whatever is babbling nearby,
In the spark of light on the backside of a firefly,
Or the diamonds on the sea where you grieve for it under the din of the wave
The scent of the gardenia mingles with a desire to chew and swallow
and alchemically join it
Beyond me,
Beyond me,
Just out of my grasp
Skin, flesh and bone and their urges
Heart groans and yearns
You say it's in the rush of my own blood,
my own breath,
the ember of my own mind?
No, no, not in here.
It's out there
It's in the magic of Otherness
And the magic can't be
in the ordinariness
of me.