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I like your eyes. Their startling climate
just like the bract of the bougainvillea, a leaf
turned all of the sudden daybreak, peach
or cloud, drawn out from the solar
and darkish water. No. Your eyes are arid
and say nothing. I’m taking a look at
you. I don’t know what I’m pondering.
You have a look at me—what, you say; nothing
I say. No. Inform me one thing. I prefer it
when all of the sudden your palms are on my shoulders
after I had supposed to rise up, get
a beer, and stroll round wanting
out the home windows on the bougainvillea
and be startled by it once more, standing
in opposition to the dry blue sky doing nothing
and as an alternative I shut my eyes and yours
are within the pillow and round and I, when
they turn into nonetheless and positive, am their
object. No. Why. Solely
I see your eyes for a second
first, then once more, your eyes first
once more, a rush of brine—they’re blue
by the ocean, blue-green within the woods; typically
they’re grey. No. The bougainvillea
sways. I prefer it whenever you stroll as much as me
then wait as if ready for me to say
one thing—what, I say. Inform me one thing.
Fantastic. Your eyes are species
of religious matter, telling objects I might
take. I’d deal with them
kindly. They’re reality. I really feel
I want them to take me out of
this, our horrible time. No, they don’t seem to be all
there may be to paradise, for nowhere
in them can I discover its reddest
tissue, nowhere this frail, intense
fireplace. Or sure, as, at what depth
I can not say, they choose up, like
satellites do, what there may be
behind me of contingency
and carry it ahead, that very
palpable world, or gentle, or lighten it, like some
pitch pine bent virtually susceptible
to the dune you see
to be a cresting, green-spumed wave
lifted above the sand by methodical
wind, virtually to breaking.

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