it’s      a      strange        thing        –         this      loss      of      focus

my  consciousness  turning  from  what  the  graphemes  say to

the  effect  of   this  monitor   screen   against   billowing   gums




I’m          doing            my            readings           amidst            this

struggle            to            translate         letters         into        leaves




learning      about      the   19th      century   split  between      the

material                                       and                                      aesthetic

cramming   concepts   as   if    into    an    Amazon      warehouse

limbs         itching         to         dance         them      into         being




why           are            the             trees             behind               glass

my                               consciousness                              fragmenting

each          distraction        like           a          knife     through    the

xylem                              of                      a                        wildflower?




before                     this                     muted                              canopy

like           cool           water           over            jagged           neurons

stories            get        projected           in         cells          of       light

kept      in     supercomputers    that     need       air   conditioning

to                                                                                                  breathe