Trust What You Hear | Charlie Schubert
I never realized that vision was a bird,
until it spread its wings across
the windshield and tried to fly away.
White lights became owl feathers
dancing among red bodies, large
and blurred like stars that have been
taken down with tongs, to be cooled
in the ocean.
Night shrinks before all these spreading
points of light. Faces look ridiculous
edged in lines painted by a child's watercolor.
I try to brush away the ink
that runs from their faces, or the spots
of dust that accumulate behind my cornea,
a lens warped, ruined
by years of uneven heating and cooling.