Try as I might, I cannot make out
that last white dot

which is your rear end.
Myopia releases the mind.
It permits

me to imagine those two
tiny intense
hazes at your heart

as eyes, or antennae,
or things less insectoid.
The images are

ill-fitting and abstract. Real
ones zig-zag in timely fashion;
jerking in and out of cloud-shadows;

none of this furtive creeping
from evening to evening.
Elegant sloth's pace --

I sigh. Breath-vapour
fogs up my glasses;
vague brightness

transmutes into
sunlight on
clear wings.