Last night you dreamed to me about someone

who gave birth to only an eyeball. It seemed to

have a sentience, a pulse within the pupil,

an expressive turn, nudging itself along

with a tail of cramping muscle and ocular nerve.

After the usual fight between the scalpel of science

and the balloon of love was won, like a Spielberg film,

the eye’s capacity for total vision unim-

paired by flesh or thought brought the droves

of faithful, seeking the cease of seeking in

the absolute centre of sight. My turn came.

I spoke to the fluted iris. Am I lucid

dreaming, or dreaming of lucid dreaming?

It coiled beneath itself, rose a little, and appeared to nod, yes.