Those eyes were so bright, so radiant
they could leave one lost and blind
and, in that state, open and read
so much—perhaps too much—within.
Or was it not already said somewhere
that the truest path into the heart
is the straightest one,
while all the rest is bent,
genuflecting—like the body of a vase
around a flower’s inner flush,
or like a wave unfolding space afar?
But then—why does so much in the world
depend on so little,
and why does that little tell so much,
being hardly more
than a single point
of stabbing light?
