Got a Postcard of Yours

As the eye corresponds, I
Can see your smooth curves in it, sweetie.
The eye slavishly matches those outlines albeit
Inside a quadrangular frame

For the eye isn’t angular, eyes
Are other balls, you know it, sweetie
Without limiting angles –
Points of view are indeed pointless.

Blunt and pointless, no edges attached
Neither cut nor horizon available, all
Embracing enough to dispense with any frame.
No sharpness in prickle needs umpire blur.

If any decision, imagination
Is going stiff under her foreskin;
Without showing up.
Love is happening though.

It would be nice if seeing could mean doing.
This is simply impossible. But
Lo and behold! I can make you out, sweetie
In this scenery, established and then dropped.

March 15, 2010