Random Acts of Poetry

Eyes

The streets fill with eyes:
morning rush, hot light,
already squinting.

By afternoon, eyes everywhere,
invading offices, lusting over lunches,
resting on screens, behind lenses,

making easy judgments.
They have their glassy mystery,
these dark jewels

reflecting a universe.
So much to read in a glance:
a knife peeling

layers of justification,
some inexhaustible mind
possessing millions of eyes,

free to assume
behind shields of lids, thick lashes.
They have their affinities:

paired irises growing and shrinking,
browns, blues
ambivalent grays,

and the reds, grieving--
hurts, frustrations living in eyes
spilling emotion,

years folded in wrinkles,
convolutions, dry river beds
circling whirlpools,

ink holes, bottomless wells,
darkened planetariums,
black marbles,

eyes that blink away
every facade, situation,
and rest at night on nothing.