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.