We believe their color makes some kind of difference,
the cast of it played off the color of hair and face.
But it makes no difference, blue or brown,
hazel, green, or gray, pale sky or sand.
When sleep-burdened they'll turn up into her,
close back down upon her sizable will.
But when she's ready for the yet-to-come—
oh, they widen, grow a deep cool sheen
to catch the available light and shine
with the intensity of the newly arrived.
If they find you they'll hold on relentlessly
without guile, the gaze no less than interrogatory,
fixed, immediate, bringing to bear what there's been
to date. Call her name and perhaps they'll turn to you,
or they might be engaged, looking deeply into the nature
of other things—the affect of wall, the texture of rug,
into something very small that's fallen to the floor
and needs to be isolated and controlled. Maybe
an afternoon reflection, an insect moving slowly,
maybe just looking with loyalty into the eyes of another.