Some god drew eyes all over
the trunks of aspen, and then,
on account of godlike things, began,
from some eyes, to grow new
limbs out of the pupils,
out into the open
of the windy atmosphere. What have you seen?
I wondered of the aspen, and do they
wonder the same of me? And
you reading this, what have you known?
The moon, almost full, rising in a pale
blue sky?
I prefer to listen, looking one way,
then the other.
I look at mouths when they speak.
I like to look at what you look at.
Maybe I am looking for a future,
word after sequential word
strung together to make an image.
The way my dad,
through binoculars, looks.
Not scrutiny but something else.
Everywhere I look, eyes. Ocular
patterns on the aspen.
I have seen the future:
something begins to sprout,
making contact—