Listen to poem:
The Eyes of Glass
A frame in the hall
scans every face it passes;
backed with silver skin
nothing lingers long enough
to show, what's best forgotten.
A transparent film
holds a blue wren on a wire,
clouds over a hill,
a view of reality
sharp, stark, crisp, and suspended.
Mist gathers as drips
specked on cold surfaces,
for fingers to trace
the dots of obscurity
into pathways through the blur.
Rain pitter-pats, splats
to streak, slowly down as tears
running through the pane,
each scene being rearranged
drop by drop, one at a time.
Panes defamed as stained
are brightened with light's spectrum,
revealing colors
ruby, green, gold and amber
spilled as shimmers on the floor.
A mirrored ball spins,
shedding bright colored spots,
on smiling faces,
dazzling bright in crowd eyes
with stars that can't forget why.
Beyond the breakers
one white sail slips from the day
into folded haze
an old brass tube gathers
what the horizon lets loose.
A fortune-teller
with a crystal sphere held tight
in hands cupped with hope-
watches as misty clouds swirl
to penny farthing fortunes.
These twain eyes of glass
show fragments of perception
none are wholly true-
yet, we reach for our glasses
to reshape our perspective.
Straining to see stars
we bring a dark tube to eyes
between bare branches
to reveal some more of what,
the glass wants to give, our way.
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