For with your eyes shut
you become disembodied,
what Redon calls,
“the strange harm of closed eyes.”

You evolve in this darkness,
into a play of flirtation
from the eye,
a chiaroscuro with the light.

We all r-evolve around our traumas,
taken two ways
(a phrase taken two ways that is)
to become ourselves.

You print your mad dreams
on those two paper lids,
as fair as an adjective
dangling upon the familiar —

Familiar like your face,
a polyp of mystery,
which somewhere else
lies in material being.

But in my mind,
it fosters a feeling —
one felt with the eye,
one felt with a prick
from behind that selenian sty.