Eyes

Hair, or body, or eyes. Eyes are straggling behind. Nothingness. There exists such thing as beneath. And around. As if I could reach anything with these hands. This sweeping, winking tall grass. My mind. Dumping out a howling water bottle. Sweeping with a broom, broom, broom! Then it clips and clicks with empty teeth. My brain closes up a bit. So I can hear again. Hair, or body, or eyes. I have millions of eyes. Some of them are waking. Some of them are smoldering. Some of them are me. As a bit of hair moves out of my face. The struggle. You can see my eyes? Not anymore.