There’s movement overhead. My eyes, moving
faster than colour, draw a bead. Of this, I’m not
in control. I hasten home to the online bird identifier
before the outstanding features are buried under
heaps of perceptual trash that inveigle
past my filters. Hours later, the computer is
glutted with my undivided attention.
I become about as real as a book’s intended
audience. An irksome disappointment
focused on nothing in particular begins to stir,
is recognized, inexpertly soothed by self-forgiveness,
then closes its eyes. This happens more quickly than
my retinas’ flicker across the screen’s fixed points.
The intervals between sleep grow longer.