and all organisms are divine
and unfixed and I am spending
my night in the kitchen. There
is blood in the batter—dark
strands stretch like vocal
chords telling me I am missing
so much with these blurred
visions: a syringe flick, the tremor
of my wrist—raised veins silked
green. I have seen the wings
of a cutthroat finch wavering
around its body, stuck, burned
to the grill of my car, which means
I have failed to notice its flight—
a lesson on infinities, a lesson I
am trying to learn. I am trying.
Tell me, how do I steady my gaze
when everything I want is motion?
I wrote "ALL CONSTELLATIONS ARE ORGANISMS" while learning about saccadic masking—a phenomenon where the brain blocks out blurred images created by eye movements. This is why I've never been able to see my own eyes move in a mirror.