Myopia, Cataract Ii Poem by Whitney Jones Olson

It is
no more my
my discernable day.
Than is the quilted erosion through madcap teacups' hedonistic
decompressions, although i am of the turn that my oscillating
tectonic emissions could integrate (at the least) short-suffering magnifications -
for my fluidly down-trickling periphery's brief restoration - that peculiar,
self-possessed serpentine panoramic specter is,
after all, ethereal, and, most significantly,
my realized potential effectively suspended. If...
momentarily caught hovering:
by gritty cosmic scalar wings
with unabashed, precocious stares and then and...
Now attempting a
Rushing at the gilded gate of my discernable day.