Down
Before Anything Is Somewhere
It’s night, lying awake in bed.
Eyes still closed.
A faint, gentle buzzing.
Then something else, quick.
A flick.
The eyes, maybe.
Turn of the head, almost.
A small movement
meaning: down, foot.
—
After the flick,
the buzzing is still there.
But it isn’t down.
Not far either.
No longer “my foot” and,
strangely, nowhere else in particular.
Just gentle sensation
in no place.
Here.
—
Once, I read about sight,
surgically given,
after a life of blindness.
Right after, eyes saw only
what the seeing call brightness,
color,
motion.
No distance
or depth.
Rooms were not rooms.
Down the street was
just right here.
—
Later, sitting at my desk.
A thought appears.
Light.
Quick.
Where?
There’s placement:
“in here.”
—
But this is not always the case.
Another day, standing in front of the mirror.
A different thought comes—
hovers,
as easily placed in front of the face
as behind it.
Still a kind of upwardness,
but no inside, no center.
—
Foot.
Thought.
Both arrive
already seemingly placed
on a map.
But watching closely—
placing happens.
Mapped, then…
—
A flick.
A muscular turn.
A wordless assigning.
Without these
buzzing
is just buzzing.
A thought
just appears.
The map goes wobbly.
—
Those first moments of sight—
many new seers said no, closed their eyes.
Too much?
Or, perhaps, no familiar way
to hold it all.
—
Sometimes
there’s just this.
Not located.
Nothing missing either.
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—
Related Reading
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The Place I Run To
Open, then narrowing. The move back to safety.
.