The internal horizon is the most

expansive; its inside-eye insight flails

across form and floods into the stretched coast

where castles are pitched with Masonic pails:

I throw mango pits from the balcony,

from the Eye inside the palm of my heart,

while the iridescent pulse of money

softens and slows to a certain stop-start:

If I squint to unclose, I can see Mount

Purgatory as a hill, draped in greens

through the mist of my imprecise account

of time behind space across these pierced screens:

The yellow fruit was tasty, but the seed

rotten: winks of sweat – this thought was one bead.