It's not necessarily distilled
But it's blended
And crushed
And forced together
As with my eyes
When I'm focused
They're pressed into service
To serve at the pleasure
Of other organs
That they might be connected to
But are not ruled by
For it takes very little
For them to wander
To the sunset
Or a birdsong
Or a crash, breaking glass
And without my eyes, can I be said to concentrate?
Perhaps if they are closed
I can be said to be focused
But not concentrated