This is called Eyes.
At night, Amanda's eyes are rage red with toy worlds inside.
Head on they rummage the dark of the paddock like twin cigars,
but flicker at the edges with the shire tongues of the spirit
lamp.
There's little enough for her to see my white shirt, the flaps.
Now my white shirt the sleeves rolled high, two flaps
of stale bread in my fish paws.
I can't sleep.
I have come back from the feed bag checkered restaurant,
from the pale loose tears of my dearest friend,
her blue eyes sinking into the highball glass,
her eyeballs clinking on ice, and her mouth drawn down
in the grand comedy of anguish.
Today a sparrow has been put in the hawks hands, and in the net
a monarch crazes its wings on gauze.
A doe run down by the dogs commonly
dies of fright before its jugular opens at the fang home.
In my friend's eyes, the famine victim
squats holding an empty rice bowl.
Oh Amanda, burn out my dark, press the warm suede
of your horse flesh against my cold palm.
Take away all that is human.