parts of you truly believe  
that your frail structure possesses the gift of flight.

and for the rest of your days,
you will doubt what your eyes see,

every so often believing that you indeed
tried to fly out the 4th story window
and failed.

and everything subsequent is a mere, sublime transfer of energy,
consciousness and je ne sais quoi
into two disembodied hemispheres in a vat.

your earth-eyes, desired,
ground into meal.
spilt, with some smeared upon lover’s forehead,
ash wednesday, thursday, friday i’m in love.

as the Redon painting that left you shivering,
silent and naked once more as in birth.
yeux fermes,
eyes closed
yet they will stare into yours eternally.*

when you were young,
you wanted to be a cartographer
because nothing unto you had been discovered,
and you knew no wrong.

and you were as you are now,
without inhibition,
without the slightest regard for morality,
decolletage or social construct.

this was when you were a native,
without years,
without knowledge
but endowed with divinity’s
slightest, piercing eye.