def. the world as experienced by a particular organism.
All I want is a red dress. I can circumscribe the island
in a day’s walk. My forays into other worlds always involve me
looking back at myself,
turned crystalline under my own gaze.
All I want is to eat the early tomatoes, enjoy how velvet feels
under the pressure of one finger. After hitting my head,
I lift my arms for the doctor,
walk a straight line. This is the space I can think inside.
My blood keeps to itself, yet can be found inside
of every nearby pond, pool, tributary. For an eighteenth
of a second, time refuses to change:
the exact measure of a human instant.
I have known as many worlds. The moon talks loudly in a language
I make sure to write down: white, hard, noun, verb.
Are these the sounds I make when touched perfectly?
I could only know from another mind. And only if that mind
had eyes, ears, a world.
I have a handful of green stones. It is not enough. The instant
passes and the word green remains without its matter.
Is this what happens to leaves when they curl up to die?
Today, I will not attach my mood to the brute materials.
Only to animals with eyes do visual and tactile experiences separate.
I close mine.
Sophie Strand is a freelance writer living in the Catskills. She is the author of the forthcoming chapbook Love Song to a Blue God (Oread Press 2017). Her poems have been published in Persephone’s Daughters, Entropy, www.poetry.org, Metambesen, and The Doris.