WEBVTT

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This is called Eyes.

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At night, Amanda's eyes are
rage red with toy worlds inside.

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Head on they rummage the dark
of the paddock like twin cigars,

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but flicker at the edges with
the shire tongues of the spirit

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lamp.

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There's little enough for her to
see my white shirt, the flaps.

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Now my white shirt the
sleeves rolled high, two flaps

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of stale bread in my fish paws.

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I can't sleep.

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I have come back from the
feed bag checkered restaurant,

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from the pale loose tears
of my dearest friend,

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her blue eyes sinking
into the highball glass,

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her eyeballs clinking on
ice, and her mouth drawn down

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in the grand comedy of anguish.

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Today a sparrow has been put in
the hawks hands, and in the net

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a monarch crazes
its wings on gauze.

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A doe run down by
the dogs commonly

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dies of fright before its
jugular opens at the fang home.

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In my friend's eyes,
the famine victim

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squats holding an
empty rice bowl.

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Oh Amanda, burn out my
dark, press the warm suede

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of your horse flesh
against my cold palm.

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Take away all that is human.

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