Here's a poem, "Darwin's Eyes."
"He kept seeing himself, a swallow peeking from its nest.
Moss, the crawl of a wasp across his study window.
And he kept having to drop everything and duck
as certain callers appeared in the mirror.
He'd aimed at the front door.
A beak, he could understand, a talon
was a hand holding his own.
It was the eye, with its vicious complexity,
that stabbed at him.
Lightning bolts of doubt, a cyclopean
stare, 10 years his origin stewing in a stack of notes.
And the eye, perhaps why he went back,
after all was said and begun.
To the worms, spending his last years
watching them, as his fingers wriggled over piano keys,
exploring up the scales and down, concerto, and dirge.
His first passion is final.
Those tender needles with their dark impulse
to feel all around them, our Earth."