Across first light's broken bridge all kinds of visions move,
some fast, almost religious, some slow with love.
You came into being the way a temple should,
and as you stand here now no eternity could outlast you.
There are eyes decreasing
until they can no longer. There are eyes that see too much
to the point where they have seen nothing.
There are eyes nothing can close. There are eyes that enunciate a
There are eyes in which reflections
are more than what's reflected. There are eyes into which
Neptunes and valleys disappear.
There are eyes in which towers crumble
and Mona Lisas paraphrase. There are eyes that pay no attention
to the sibilance of the sun
All of these eyes are your eyes, your eyes are everything.
And I am just a fragment
of someone else's comprehension.
Perhaps we all are?
Your eyes say what is possible, but enough with your eyes,
they lose me, I lose them. There is something else,
that refutes all sense of image, even darkness,
It is something that is perfect, and yet
there is no sphere that is perfect, the Sistine Chapel
is not perfect, the Sagrada Familia
is not perfect, the Aurora Borealis is not perfect,
a storm in the Shetlands
is not perfect, a New England autumn is not perfect,
the face of a new-born baby is not perfect,
the only thing that is perfect