My one good eye continues to have the last laugh; it has no
other company; once considered a perceived threat: it has
since been removed off the X but from time to time still
levels with the clumsy cataracts of the widowed key-maker:
my one good eye follows the crow’s feet just below the arch
of brow-line where it has learned to sit with its nose to the skin
of the earth & really listen; it found a penchant for archeological
fragments; fishbones, polished groin, the strident cry of the cock;
my one good eye was blinded by a shard of light just waiting
to be gulped; it helped uncover a grid of inanimate objects;
furniture toys shoes piled within swinging distance of the weed-
covered cul-de-sac; my one good eye in the name of bestiary,
outside the grounds of the charity shop, found its unyieldingly
dark silhouette like a sleuth fixed under glass & now lives in fear
of jumping the gun; again, my one good eye is buried underwater;
it lies in ambush in a captivating oceanic aesthetic; 70% isopropyl
alcohol dyed blue; it’ll make you at the jetty without inference or
context from a reliable source; my one good eye isn’t much of a
cook; it knows how to chop & ordain in equal parts but always
over-cherries the fruit cocktail by at least two-thirds; my one good
eye is nearly translucent: its tiny organs seem to float in a Jell-O-like
salad; its muscles are see-through; we’ve talked about how to fork
around the parts of the dish that the birds have touched; if my one
good eye sees his shadow then it’s an early spring, there are no
coincidences, comrade, I confess, my one good eye ransacked
your bed of peonies for the second time this year; it longs to ruin
what you have worked so hard to achieve; it’s triggered when pushed
into a corner, a pattern likely carried over from childhood when it
felt the glue of the bandaged other begin to delicately unravel; in
humidity, when bruise turns to bounty, my one good eye stays
awake at night as if it owned the placid orbits of the void; someone
took a picture of my one good eye next to a woman lighting up
a cigarette from a stove whose chimney shot through the roof of the
brothel like a bronze-painted marine cannon or an outstretched arm
shaking the dice across the overturned soap crate into brittle stars.