Perfect grace is only glimpsed as through shaded glass. A miasma of dusk keeps me from finding its true shape, only allows an impression. Frustration at knowing there are details I cannot trace. Until, just once, the hazy shadow lifts. I am overawed (overwhelmed) by the suddenness of clarity. An abundance to take in - more than an eye can hold. The veil shifts, drifts, and falls. I scrabble and clutch, but I can't remember everything (anything?) that I saw. How can I speak what I can't recall? When pinpricks, like silverfish, are all that remain.
sláinte
*This poem appears in Loft Books Issue IV.