The Corner of Eye . . .
. . . is an unreliable square, a questionable source of information, where leaves
turn to scorpions, sticks to skeletons and blossoms to flames. When I turn to
stare full on, there is no ostrich, but a persecuted black bag, stuffed with
rubbish, no neck, but a mop mocking my insecurity. Beneath my feet are stones,
not bread. How could I be confused when only pebbles rattle this underfoot rhythm?
Yet, glass eyeballs do so too. I should like to pass a boulder in this wasteland
and be sure it is not a backpack, because there is no fisherman in this desert,
no farmer in this field. Only an owl alights on a rock to hoot derision at my
need for fresh water, not waves. I wish the corner of my eye were round, like
my longing for the moon.
First appeared in Green Dragon
Return to Archive