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.
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