the loneliness of definiteness

the loneliness of definiteness, 

as sensory so leads me,

as if I ever wished to dress in certitude.

give me a mirror 

that reflects fog or sky,

but not life-viewed

as a stare-down. 

conclusions are a labor 

on attention spans.

I wish to spy on uncertainty,

to be clothed

in someone else's second-hand ambivalence

and not be the wiser,

have vagaries 

for sunset impression left behind,

be in a conversation

and realize I am of it,

be passionately definite about uncertainty,

know the truth to be un-addressable,

wander in on meaningful

in a dressing room of its composure,

say what you said,

but only in my head hearing it.

realize, as if spontaneously so,

that every next moment is questionable,

that people all around,

chasing love, 

are only a defining shadow 

away from discernment.

I can't help but feel

and language doesn't articulate that.

vaguery is my hearty soup of the day.

wandering is as clear 

as intentionality can get.

it seems I am standing in a line, alone,

not really knowing 

what I am about to get,

in which I am then gifted 

with a puzzling matter.

so how to frame the inevitable,

in complete surprise?

to find, in the loneliness of definiteness, 

where sensory so leads me,

that certitude is a mind-grab,

where I only wanted feel,

as check to check . . .