Uh-huh. I write Aers a nice poem about her green eyes, and little miss Claire is on Twitter ten seconds later boasting what a poet I am and then five seconds after that reminding me that she's got green eyes too and basically demanding her own poem for it.
Whatever you say, lady:
I've had those eyes in my head, you know.
Right in the skull where my own eyes should go.
I've felt them, hooked up to my blond, blue-eyed brain.
I've seen through their pupils.
So let me explain.
I can lay eyes on you.
You can lay eyes on me.
But we both know beforehand just what we will see.
We're a thing, you and I.
Bound by
a
split
corporeality.
You'll know what I'd tell you
before I could speak.
You know when I'm noble.
You know when I'm weak.
So I don't need to write what I see in your gaze.
I don't need to gloss
on the sun's
shining rays.
Or how clouds disperse.
You don't need a verse.
You know.
Better than
I
can say.
