March Poems, No. 57

MARCH POEMS, NO. 57

Her eyes
Were a color
That could not
Be classified.
When she tilted
Her head,
Put her eyes
Close to his eyes,
Her eyes burned
All the conceptions
Of eyes
That he had stored
In graves
Of the cemeteries
Scattered throughout the brain.
There was smoke,
Ashes in the brain;
An unknown,
Like a phoenix,
Leaped out of the ashes.
Her eyes
Obscured the unknown.
It was
A moment of rapture,
A rapture
Never experienced before
In our familiar world of lies.


Duane Locke

Posted over on The Hold