From Where I Sit by Robert D. Montoya

The world is distorted:


A tiny crack where walls meet

Forms a burrow, where a spider

Weeps its web onto the sinews

Of my increasing thought.


The dust on the cabinet is settled,

staged with a perfect conception;

With one large sweep

Of breath, it is in chaos,


It is indivisible as it drifts

Into the alveoli of my lungs

To become the body of me

The sense of disorder within me.


These seconds seem so hollow,

Like a skin with no muscle

Draped endlessly over the edge

Of some abstract explanation


Of this body sitting in a chair,

Or some shadow of some tree

That the wind cannot move

And the leaf cannot grow from.