Invisible the Shining

Morning's door closed
safely against
the night's transgressions,
the shower is sun-washed
and calming after
a fashion.

From my brow cascade rings of
droplets toward a vanishing
point hidden beneath
the sun-quickened enamel of
the bathtub,
constellated elongations like
tears
in swift retreat,
circumscribing the tunnel of
my vision and
bearing away sweat and memory
illuminated from
within
(and sanitized):
incarcerated sunlight older than
its departure
and younger than
I would describe myself
in candid conversation.

Eyes veer equine and foaming
across a porcelain grid
etched in grout and unseen --
I envy
(or perhaps resent
or perhaps there is
no difference)
such orderly delineations --
in pursuit of
a new and unfamiliar
flaw in the vitreous humor, an
indistinct and thus more
troubling
smear attended by
a vermiculate eddy,
a corona to record
some occular insult
or mortification
a metaphor --

occult sun shining
occult sin shining
occult sun shunning
shining

shunning.

In such darkness as
the sun allows
as God allows
his opposite
if He does

I hide

the venous aureole
the venal reminder
invisible
the shining.