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they say the right eye is the eye
of the father
it hides beneath a mantle
of low clouds
only the left asks if we see its seeing
do we sense what aquafies
even as the photograph closes
in on itself everything around it
turned to black and white
the chiaroscuro it lives in
oceanic iris encircling
the pupil's isla negra
and its intake of breath
it is already forgetting
who it was
it is catching the last coin
of light as the dove coos
into the evening
something like a prayer
copyright 2016
Lois P.
Jones |
