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Why should the eye

Have all the fun?

Why does love into my passive sight run

And remain there?

Because my mind doesn’t dare?

Because my heart doesn’t care?

Why should my passive eye feast

On the mere sight of her?

Which isn’t her?

Light ends, and weighs the least.

I see the way her face bends to show

Her neck. But what does my eye know?

She doesn’t know herself in my eye—

Ignorance ignorantly looked at—why

Does the sight of her give pleasure, why?

Why should my casual eye

Be the king, the policy, the people, the army, the spy?

If she is mine, the weight of her, everything must fall

Into my falling, my beautiful story rising to her beautiful story,

Wedding, romance, hero-worship, kindness, eye-to-eye glory.

The philosophy of long-distance seeing

Convinces my germ-fearing body sight is being.

Sight looks from the safety of its own

Seeing. Looking at looking is all that fear can own.

The million images drifting by

Finally brings madness to the power-hungry eye.

Passivity, even one that wears such a crown,

Brings the most optimistic lover down.

The eye has no authority at all.

She must be. She must recognize me.

It is how thought exists. It is how things in poetry

Come to be. Blind, she comes to me when I call.

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