The Eyes

The Eyes

Whenever I return from the sea,
I carry back water that almost remembers your eyes—
that impossible blue,
that quiet transparency.

Even the rarest stones the tide surrenders
borrow their shine
from the dark centers of your gaze.

Are you merely a woman,
or the place
where every metaphor has been waiting to arrive?

I've spent the whole evening
becoming dust.

The moment you take off your glasses,
I'll drift inside
the gentle hollow of your eyes,

and I'll never leave—

unless you turn to me and smile,

"Could you blow on it?
I think something got into my eye."