I see one tree instead of thousands,
And only out of one eye
Instead of two.
Beyond the lone tree
Is space.
Space that I cannot get to.
This box, my prison,
And that tree
Alone.
One eye,
Right eye,
Exposed – To see.
The other
Hidden.
Made to look at a black wall.
My peripheral teases me.
I think my left eye might see something
If only my head could turn.
Movement!
Behind me?
Come past my right eye.
Their blood I can taste.
The staleness of my box overtakes my nose.
Their scent eludes me.
Now, they are gone.
Briana Wilson 