Sometimes while you are talking,
look in my eyes.
No convection there,
or gap winds rising
can ever hide.
Masters and mistresses have forced
in your mind
instruments of alarm,
wired to warn in advance
of ambiguous signs.
Like seeing my eyes might
drag your tailpipe through town,
or flat your tires to ride clapping
through a village in mourning.
You’ve got to look.
Notice not only if lightening might strike
or if veils in the wind will down trellises.
Not only how changes in the sky
feed the plums, lengthen vines,
heat the stone of slopes,
and dry sweat to salt
on your sun-strengthened thighs.
Notice without measuring
the life in my eyes.
Notice like you did —
lying on a limb high,
young, behind a country house,
before you were trained to turn away
from the life within
eyes like mine.