Let us sing of eyes – the eyes of a gracious reader,
eyes that see my first thoughts, peer into the trash bin
of my raw write, pick out my “I give up” crumpled bits,
smooth them with care, hands pressing slow
on wrinkled words, red pen tucked behind
a listening ear: I sing for thee, Pioneer of Poetry!
Better than my finest secret indulgences:
dark chocolate pales, cabernet sours
in comparison. You indulge at a deeper level,
without effects – except for the silent stone
dropped into the stillest pond, circle upon endless circle
beyond sight. You midwife my pregnant pause,
take sterile knife to umbilical, make the cleanest cut
and humor me with my own loud offspring:
“Behold!” You say as if the thing lying before you,
all filth covered and alien, was Beauty herself,
and I say, stunned and worn out from pushing,
“Well, I’ll be damned.” I praise your eyes
that have become my eyes.


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