To look right into the eyes
is to see the thing itself that lives

the ghost who occupies the form
and who watches you in turn.

To stare into those glassy pools
of jasper, lapis, and peridot, one sees

the blackened spinning spokes
of thought, of life, of shimmering pulse.

Careful to avert the gaze from orbs
that like the sun burn bright, we

duck our heads and with furtive
glance avoid the beam, the light,

those depths, or the chance that
in the lens we’ll glimpse

the reflection of God’s
own terrible face.


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