Hard to see truly at a glance.
I hope to find in the glass what will make
it sensible. Everything. Cheeks cut
like streambeds down from eyes,
the bone of the impermanent skull.
The eyes fold deeply brown
into fleshy lids, make little valleys,
crease the hills of the bony sockets.
Like looking down at land from a plane.
A rock pock-marked in the acne era,
worn in the reckless age by drunken wind,
the dark forest at the clearing’s edge.
The alpine face. Note the graying border.
The eyes have it. The eyes design the seen.
Here is the self, divided in bifocals,
a body under incandescent heaven.
Copyright 1998, Gerry McFarland
Gerry McFarland lives with his wife in Seattle where he writes, walks his dog, and works as a consultant in geriatrics and long-term care.
Thematic Contents / Vol. 3, No. 2
Back / Forward