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I really like your eyes. Their startling climate
just like the bract of the bougainvillea, a leaf
grew to become abruptly break of day, peach
or cloud, drawn out from the solar
and darkish water. No. Your eyes are arid
and say not anything. I’m taking a look at
you. I don’t know what I’m considering.
You have a look at me—what, you assert; not anything
I say. No. Inform me one thing. I love it
when abruptly your arms are on my shoulders
after I had meant to rise up, get
a lager, and stroll round taking a look
out the home windows on the bougainvillea
and be startled by way of it once more, status
in opposition to the dry blue sky doing not anything
and as an alternative I shut my eyes and yours
are within the pillow and round and I, when
they develop into nonetheless and likely, am their
object. No. Why. Simplest
I see your eyes for a 2nd
first, on the other hand, your eyes first
once more, a hurry of brine—they’re blue
by way of the sea, blue-green within the woods; from time to time
they’re grey. No. The bougainvillea
sways. I love it whilst you stroll as much as me
then wait as though looking ahead to me to mention
one thing—what, I say. Inform me one thing.
Effective. Your eyes are species
of religious topic, telling items I may just
take. I might deal with them
kindly. They’re reality. I think
I want them to take me out of
this, our horrible time. No, they don’t seem to be all
there’s to paradise, for nowhere
in them can I to find its reddest
tissue, nowhere this frail, intense
hearth. Or sure, as, at what intensity
I can’t say, they select up, like
satellites do, what there’s
at the back of me of contingency
and lift it ahead, that very
palpable international, or mild, or lighten it, like some
pitch pine bent virtually inclined
to the dune you spot
to be a cresting, green-spumed wave
lifted above the sand by way of methodical
wind, nearly to breaking.

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