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.