"Blur" by H. L. Hix

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.