We were built with eyes and brains, given
senses to filter the glut of experience
pouring into us, its bright bulk.
Filters and funnels. Methods to block or channel
what’s thrown our way. Give me land, houses
say, and up come walls, fences, gates.
It’s not enough. We need the air, the light
so holes are chopped into homes. The air, yes,
but not what lives in air, no birds or bugs,
so here is glass. A screen to strain the wind
reaching in. The light, we like it, it’s warm
but in mornings, too much. We sew shields to the eyes
of a house, internal lids to disperse the sun.
We are present in doses: toe testing the bath,
panes lifted a crack. Even so, we flinch.