Your face is smashed.
It's a pot thrown down.
          You're smashed against a window no one can see,
not even you,
          with your red wounds for eyes —
I'm looking

          at the teeth in the gum under the lip that isn't there,
but I can't find your eyes, they're lost
          in your head,
your nose a single nostril,
          your whole palate cleft
from the bolt of being born, and now you're

          arching your back,
lifting your belly, and I can see the lightning
          coming out of your body,
I can see the fire, the red pools in your sockets,
          the combusted seeds of an enormous
light —
          Can I

crawl in them, look through them, I am so sure they are a door,
          if I pried into the fused lids I would find
ice, stars, space with its cold fires spreading out
          beyond the body,
if I could just shimmy through them,
          I would see what's inside us:
the muteness,
          the blindness —

because I don't know what it's like to be born
          without tears,
because sighted I am blind to all
          that's invisible,
because without eyes I imagine
          anything:

          gems, suns, whatever conducts the light.