you and I exist
not as
a series of near-
infinite points, but
more as as series
of near
hits and misses.
In both cases,
some kind of
surveillance is involved—
some orienting
spin somehow
superintends
the blind-alley waste
of directionless space—
but in neither
could you say
we've mapped
the lightning strike
of being yet,
even though
we've been surveying
all the right places.
