become an eyelid. lidded
glass in the little waves -- skip, skip -- the heart
has it's two halves, it's beloveds, those
internalized twins of kissing. Who
will whisper, pine siskins zipping
threads for trees, little whiskers
on the hillside, over ever water.
All along, I wondered. Your eyes
don't look at me. I mean: Don't
look at me! How raw to be seen --
to be realized. Once I was invisible:
I wanted to be seen. But now I think -- NO!
Let me let you look at me. Let me.
