Turns out lots of lines prove blurry I once thought sharp. Some blur from further away, some from closer in. Plant/animal, for instance. On which side, and why, the sessile polyps, corals and sea anemones? Same problem saying why my self must be internal. Where do I see those finches glinting at the feeder? To experience the is-ness of what is, I’d need to locate the here-ness of what’s here. Or be located by it. Or share location with it. There’s a line I want to blur: between my senses and my self. And another: between my senses and the world. That anemone looks more like a lily than an appaloosa. Looks, and acts. I feel that fizz of finches sparkle on my tongue, the back of my throat. I don’t say these words until I hear them. My voice visits. Is visitation. I would choose the role of visitor over visited, if I got to choose. Those finches trill and warble in sequences of phrases. I can tell there’s pattern, but not what the pattern is. I can say I hear them (I do hear them) in my sleep, but I can’t say what that means. Their twitters and chirps start early, before I wake. I can say they chatter all day (they do), when I’m hearing them and when I’m not, but I can’t say how I know that. The back of my hand always feels as if it’s just been lightly touched.
Copyright © 2018 by H. L. Hix. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 29, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.