Gwen Hardwood
I was sent to fetch an eye
promised for a fresh corneal graft.
At the doctor's rooms nurse gave me
a common paper bag;
in that, a sterile jar;
in that, the disembodied eye.
I sat in Davey Street
on a low brick garden wall
and looked. The eye looked back.
It gazed, lucid and whole,
from its colorless solution.
The window of whose soul?
Trees in St. David's Park
refreshed the lunchtime lovers;
riesling gold, claret dark;
late flowers flaunted all colors.
But my friend and I had eyes
only for one another.
No comments:
Post a Comment