Great oval suns’ spikes focus when my right eye fixes
on the pattern of waterdrops on the lashes.
I examine it for the first time: puddles
of gasoline, yet spaced out like raindrops.
The other circles are gray, dim, dancing into one another
as the lens shifts.
Of the two stars I can see,
one supernovas, and other other
pulls me eye.
The slithering chain of droplets constrict and release
and before long I pan out,
surveying the masses of plant leaves
under the oppressive light ray.
They assemble their color under the shade, and
a father shouting to his young daughters
beyond the woodpile below echoes up.
The thin stretched skin under my foot
crushes the red pine needles,
and then find the generous moss
on what once were stairs.