November 1st 2021
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.