by Ryler Dustin

I’d like to run my eyes along you
and collect you as a pool fills
with the image of a drowned bird,
as a field we’ve seen at different times
reports the face of wind.
A boy on a playground stares at me
as if to see where he’s headed—
when he’s older, he’ll read these words
and find me looking back.
So sensitive to geometry, we seldom see
beyond what things resemble. It’s useful
to be suspended here behind these words
running like water over everything.
We can never really see friends’ faces, though
or the world’s raw hunks and filaments
since even as infants we begin making sense of the world:
learning names for shapes
we’ll only see approximations of.
Standing on the dock, I watch
bay waves lacerated by light.
I ask my eyes what happened
in the book they read
and they say, Footprints in ash.
I ask them about your face
and they swim beneath dark waves
towing away something silver.
I ask them what movies they remember
and they only reply,
The one with the beautiful dancer.
It was easy for God to make blind life
and the first seeing thing was only a little harder.
But the second seeing thing—
to make something
that could look into something
looking into it.
As downtown blooms in a dying day
as our hands clasp in my car
as we pass below bright green lamps and billboards
you fall asleep, which is familiar to me, though I can’t see
where you go when I watch you.