Theoria 13

 

Eyes: in which my hand was reflected,
briefly, in stupendous blue.

Mirror of nightface of stars
on the oceans

mirror of time
in the hand’s plunging motion

onto the surface of night
teaching the mind how to write.

My hand on your brow
through the eyeborn distance

the loss in the word
gathering resistance

flaring and fading to die
in the darkness developing behind the opening eye.

Who, at the last, stood in whose reflection?
Who, at the first, brought the image to perfection

and jumped the lost space of time
leaving a word in your streaming iris

a word
that was not yours or mine?

In the eyeblink of occurrence – what forgiveness?
To a lifetime of reversal – what resistance?

This world can open the wound
of childhood’s betrayal – kiss me –

only so much.
The rivers of Eden

run dry in the eyes of the mind
at the breath of your touch.