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She stains the water with the finest reflections.
A river beds silt sheets crave silk
She pries the fingers of a flowers fist.
The flower beds fine throws and threads
begin to cry and covet.
She caught her husband’s eye,
and she didn’t give it back.
Now he rests in his coffin with one left,
and the other’s made of glass.
It was always like that.
In the street, mid flight,
she’d catch the eyes of eagles and owls,
and between their cleaved beaks
the eyes of rats.
And she proceeds.
Siphons eyes from their pockets,
like a pick pocket pulls
pennies from their sockets,
and she puts them in a locket,
and she locks it.
Then when she hits home
she puts it in a little cracked clay bowl,
with some keys no one needs,
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