My left eye is lazy, meanders the landscape.
my gaze crooked, my vision weak,
I cannot appreciate delicate objects;
I wait to hear about finer edges of what exists.

I try to speak and look into people's eyes;
they look through me, then over their shoulders
to see if someone else is behind them;
there is never anyone there.

There is a gulf between me
and the further side of what there is.

I hear whispers:
She sees the world with one eye,
and eternity with the other.