Dribs and Drabs

I never look at my eyes when I look in the mirror. I would be afraid to look through myself. And I don’t go for kitchen appearances. I look for the young two year-old eyes. With sallow blandishments of melancholy. Loving to sleep with mother and father. And in-between us we are indistinguishable air. We are each other’s cover. I can tell you that love has no surface. Love is the whitening gray in a cloud that drips into droplets and warms our open eyes that I was speaking about. You are timeless, you love and that is the root identity of we three.



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