*after Andrew Wyeth
The world doesn’t bloom
from the eye; rather, it is the world
that makes sight, layering vision
upon vision. There is no self
without the Other: the grass
and the distance of darker things.
We are moved, continuously,
by how the land moves.
Even the smallest flower
drying below the arm of the sun
drives the self to the self.
We are bent toward becoming.
Witness: she lies on the grass,
and the field sinks into her.
She sees the thing, and it sees her.
It moves into her blood,
creating the shift. She becomes
what is seen. And I see her.