Look into the eyes
of him,
the eyes
of every man—face, skin, jars of clay—
pristine, perfect, the moon
(mirrors of itself): day glow,
an Indian sunset. The light
sucks into him.
Sparkling dew of the brow,
Revealing, he says.
Gushing
a rain cloud that can no longer hold itself
of love.
Stealing into autumn,
protruding into the night.