Sure you do, Claire.

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.