Attention to Details

by Carol Casey

Perhaps it was the years of living in my head;
reading at four; a myopic childhood
in a fuzzy world, growing a taste for softened,
muted, no edges sharp
as my mother’s tongue.

pain comes when I look too closely.

I think in large concepts, ignore specifics:
spiderwebs in corners, dust on shelves,
the gentle, layered filigree of cedar leaves
a somewhat blind existence, prescription lenses
used for driving, working, hiding.

(detail: thin, metal navy blue frames that match my favorite face mask).

I think in colors not pixels.

(detail: the daddy long legs looks more brown
on the beige lawn chair. How still she rests squat
on her string legs in the sun, casting a geometric
shadow, oval with four lines spreading out
at 30-degree angles).

Four? I look again, see some crumpling
of other legs. Is she dead?
I prod her with my pen,

(detail: black, cylindrical)

startle both of us
and she’s gone, like so much else.
Its pain to see things too close,
watch them disappear,
like trust, adoration,

(detail: no, I won’t make myself)

disillusionment came quickly,
startled both of us, more so
for never being acknowledged.