The lens is a monocle
a mockingbird flies right through it
and focus becomes a kind of concern
a bird’s eye does this too
Around every worldly focus
sharp like a chirp, the felt impression
of the periphery is vying, but
I am locked in your focus
And you in mine, and as for
the glassine other, it is wending
its way through the inattention
like noises from the kitchen
