Inside the TV set, behind the screen
of the computer, through the oblong glass
the windshield is, its surface daily-clean,
through scaffolds on electrons fueled or gas,
there moves a little picture of the world
with finite boundaries and pleasant size.
She’s focused forward so her face is curled,
engraving at the corners of her eyes.

Her mother said her face could freeze and fix
in one expression, peering that intense
and minute way. But muscle locks and tics
are little problems, nothing as immense
as atrophy of vision: there’s a brain
behind those eyes that feeds on full terrain.