Google knows a thousand very specific things about my eyes because I’m trying to figure out if I’m dying:



Yesterday was eleventh winter.

The snow – fat clumps –

would be satisfying marvels in January

but might well be weighed by its gravitational pull on my heart in April.


The last time I went outside it was still winter, so I couldn’t find my keys

when finally it came time to rise from an hours-long zoom,

like a spring bud pushing up from cold mud.

They were buried in my parka’s pocket from the time before. When it was winter.


Doctor Google suggested I might be dying from stabbing pain behind my eye.

So an emergency appointment in a pandemic.

The prescription: Stand up. Go outside. Look far. Hope.

Presently myopic, the end indistinct.

Zoom, scroll, play “a thousand ways the world ends” (works best late at night).


Jack Pine seeds lie dormant;

fire razes, lays flat the forest, invites previously-impossible renewal.

But not without quiescence.

And not without fire.


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