I can see right through this day— from teacup to cocktail—each minute unsmudged by mystery. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Noon-illuminated, bright as belief. If I stare at clarity long enough, I see spots. Apparently, what’s limpid lies. The sky slung blue over the grass (each blade) disguises the universe—the galaxies of stars, who by night, spit-shined, trick us with dead light. But we expect to be fooled by moon; that’s our rightful excuse, our pass for wickedness. Day, however, plane of good work and duty— alert—hides worse: hubris of certainty, lucid insight—that obscene, penetrating curse.