I CAN SEE IN YOUR EYES
I can see in your eyes
the immolation of the sumac
and the blue ghosts being exorcised
from distant fires on the autumn hillsides
like mountains that now grovel in the dust at your feet.
I can see in your eyes the crumbs of the dreams
you pennied away like wishing wells in your sleep
where all the best lies that come true
sell out when they wake up like reviewers
to a second edition of your life’s work.
I can see in your eyes there are no rust spots
on the lilac bloom of the joy you take
in matching your emotions
to the wine stains and blood spatter
on the broken towers of the hollyhocks
or the white stars that can be seen in broad daylight
in the ultramarine skies of the mystic delphiniums
shedding their eyelids
like a change of constellations on a starmap
that isn’t bound to the shapes of things.
I can see in your eyes a secret garden
you lead your lovers blindfolded to
and there the waterlilies mingle with deadly nightshade
in a potpourri of enlightenment
where a virgin breaks a wild unicorn
to ride it bareback down to the lake like moonlight
to teach it to drink its own reflection out of her hand.
I can hear your sexual mushrooms
waxing like moons in the dark
and the pillow talk you have with your heart
when there’s rain on the window
like tears you just can’t hold back.
You might think you’re as enigmatic
as water on Mars
or weather on the moon
but I can see the blue atmospheres
that once clung to you for life-support
holding their breath in the breathless immensities
and I can hear the ghost-written lyrics of the wind
you once gave your voice to
waiting on your summons like a seance
to live it all through you again.
I know you think you’re looking at life
through a broken windowpane
but I can see in your eyes
soft chandeliers of rain falling
on the bruised hills in the distance
and I can tell they’re made of water
not dark energy and anti-matter
by the flowers that bloom in their wake.
And it’s not hard to see in your eyes
how much the questions hurt
that you’ve given up asking
like a boyfriend who never calls you back.
And that must mean there’s something wrong with you.
Something wrong with love.
Something wrong with life.
Something in your eyes so indelible
you just couldn’t wash out it out
however far and deep
you cried yourself out
like underground rivers
into this glacial palace in a sacred ice age.
But I can see in your eyes a new moon
where you see an eclipse.
You’ve just closed your eyelids
to dream a little deeper.
You see a candle at a black mass.
You see a misfit in a glass slipper.
But I can see in your eyes
the light that it casts
is already one star ahead of the past
like Dubhe and Merak in the Big Dipper
pointing at Polaris like the spoke of a wheel
to the axis of the turning world
as it sweeps the dust of the day
like stars under the flying carpet of the night.
You see a mirage embodied in a urn of clay
and you say that’s who you are
and that’s what love is.
But I don’t see in your eyes
even when I plumb the depths of your pupils
any sign of a black dwarf
for all its massive gravitas
standing like a warden
at a huge black iron gate
to keep your light from getting out.
I can look straight through you
like a witching stick can find water
in the southern hemisphere of the moon
whether you’re on the dark side
or trying to hide in the shadows of lunar noon.
I can look into your eyes
and see the underground watersheds
your fountain heads are rooted in
like floral goblets full of poppy wine
that tastes like the sun at midnight.
And even when the skies are low and overcast
I can look into your eyes like a starmap
and read the first signs of a new zodiac
coming up to the east of your smile
where spring occurs in every one of them
and the celestial equator doesn’t cross the ecliptic
and hope to die like lovers
with their fingers crossed behind their backs.
And though I know I’m light-years off the beaten track
and your shining isn’t meant for me
I can see in your eyes
a new cosmology where the stars
are not fixed in place like the crown jewels
of Corona Borealis in the crystal palace of Arianrhod
behind unbreachable locks
on the dynastic houses of the Celtic dead
but move spontaneously like homeless fireflies
more intimate with things within reach
knowing whenever two of them meet
inspired by an exchange of insights
into what hues of radiance
to include in their paint box
to capture the picture-music of earth
it’s always the spring equinox
and all seasons are seasons of birth.