Visual snow

Moving swirling
seething
winking in and out of existence
More than half transparent
Every color, all at once
tiny dots
pixie pixels
making the world shimmy and flicker
for as long as I can remember.

Eighth grade, French class.
Endless conjugations
that I can ignore because I already know
(passe compose, plus que parfait)
so I press on my eyelids
to pass the time
and I wait
for the world to be covered
in a shimmering dance
Every color, all at once
a kaleidoscope of patterns
suddenly subsumed in flashing op art
grids and lines
warps and bulges
endless
timeless
white and indigo giving way to yellow-brown and lavender
back and forth, back and forth
too fast to track
swallowing sound
slowing thought
passing time.

At every age
I have looked to the sky
blue, blue, blue
a silent canvas
clear but not clear
(every color, all at once)
because my eyes mark out shapes
transparent overlays
square or round
grainy edges
slightly pulsing
ever moving
following stuttering sideways tracks
just like floaters
(but not)
doorways in the air.

Then there are the clock faces
bright lights and signs
afterimages in every direction
afterimages of afterimages
floating, converging, fading
blurring
contrast without sharp lines.
Another sight:
Close my eyes, see my irises
every color, all at once
behind my lids
there they are, right there.
Round, radial, blank spot in the middle
still, constant
but only for a tiny moment
flickering in colored strobe lights.

It's like having another sense,
one there's no name for
one that only shows up in searches as a chromatic aberration
something photographers find (and call a problem)
not people with eyes
the eyes to see
the words of love
given with love
in black square script
(black fire on white fire)
with barely-there blue purple shadows below and to the left
and red-yellow fire blazing up and to the right
every color, all at once.