Autobiography of Eyes

Autobiography of Eyes


The invisible, rooted in the cold, 
maturing towards that light
that dissipates in every other light. 
Nothing ends. Time returns 
to its beginning, the hour 
we breathe: like nothing, 
as if it could not see a thing.
It's not what it is.

At the edge of summer heat: 
blue sky, purple hill.
The distance that survives.
A house made of air, and the flow
of air in the air.

How are you stones
that are unrolled against the earth.
like the sound of my voice
in your mouth?