Myopia, Cataract I Poem by Whitney Jones Olson

My everyday rush - is not only the air in the leaves, not only
the steady progression of cylindrical confessionals, the
fibers fluxes and cascade of tumbling icons - for which eye
have taken recently a hostile merger, (an ocular coup, of sorts) , No...
my day is not only this fantastic subjugation
of cloudy neon sink-light greens, fame of monofocal clarities - not these
creamily swirled metallic interjections, certainly not my
It is
no more my
my discernable day.