poem(s) for eyes

from crepuscular orations

Eyes semiclosed, gazing panting gently,
and my eyes sped along ahead so I could see the trains turning quickly around the bends as the women, exhilarated, held on tightly.
To open my eyes.
Look at his pretty eyes,
and flickering eyes.
My eyes are dry,
maybe the sun was too much in my eyes.
He also has prepossessing eyes.
But in my eyes
long tall dark eyes and moan, silently,
his smooth hands and his crystal beautiful eyes.
Even though she glares and corner-eyes me.
Pretty hazel eyes.
For his eyes to see.
Dark eyes.
His dark eyes forever engrained,
through his eyes
when I force him to keep his eyes open
for the eyes to soak it up, the lashes lining.
We looked at eyes with our mouths open.
Desert skin on ocean eyes.
Or his eyes?
All I had to do was to close my eyes
but for the moments when his eyes would grow big looking upwards,
my tears fogging my brain and my eyes.
My pretty dog with her pretty eyes.
His eyes & profile.
My eyes began to leak and he stayed in me,
eyes on theatrical display.
Soaking into my eyes and my ears and my heart,
his dark eyes etched with the charcoal lashes of a woman,
his beard grows all the way up to just under his eyes.
I can still close the eyes and find you warming down me.
Rolling eyes,
his surprised, opened-eyes:
He has green eyes, or hazel, and they go down at the corners somehow...
I can see the color of his face and the tactile reactions of his eyes...
and the teeth and eyes,
my eyes are watering
his eyes closed
my eyes, his.
I'm glad hat he has hazel eyes that go blue.
I want his brain & eyes.
All sorts of eyes on me,
conversations & eyes!
I can barely use my eyes, they are so teary...
My eyes filled and I said,
pretty eyes, pretty face.
He has redbrown eyes like his hair.

from momentos preciosas

my eyes I can feel are closing.
eyes dilated,
my problem is not just dilation of the eyes but the mind,
I feel my eyes dropping closed.

And just so common

7 June, 1:11 pm

beach house method: 6 7 1 7 6

And just to admit now

that days have been, and not to

remain

throbbing visibly from the

spying. Reminiscing

not am I of his trembling

tempers;

his salt no longer crusts

my lashes. Wearily

(now am I the nervousest,

and

said it isn't mist, it's dust,

and awareness of my

satisfyings, sitting soft

in

knowing forever that I

swim regardless of him.)

(he, an unmentionable

different.)

(he with his name of only

four consonants. Counting not

that one particular

elusive.

A letter for sometimes or

always... The sane, the sane,

the same.)

Hot,

in temperatures, hot not

in heat. Tempered to a

tepid temperance, and the

somehowance

of a superior quiet

around me, if it could

be called it. Because of being

spied,

and maybe the other &

I (,that four-consonanted

fellow & I) could birth one

another

without the shadows; that I'd

like twilight, because with

with with the danish I wasnot

lacking

in twilights or craving for

them, not in he or the

other fellow, the bread-fellow,

he

and his vowels, or anyone

else in worlds/ so it is

happenable; who could care

about

mist anymore anyway,

and who could care to skip

a spying with anyone

on

such a pretty earth; all

the prettiest types and

their prettiest tastes, such differents

when

good, so good, so common.