The Poet Struggles to Find a Metaphor for Eyes

John Grey

Her eyes are descended from stars.
No, they’re earthier than that.
They’re the seeds spat out from grapes.
But more romantic.
Like Christmas baubles hung in trees.
But not as artificial.
Not as commercial.
Like those same baubles
re-imagined as fruit.
The juiciest compote on the planet.
But I don’t want to eat them.
So make that luscious looking but inedible.
But not poisonous.
That’s all wrong.
Fruit is fruit
It lacks expression.
So her eyes are dancers.
But not sore-footed.
And not sweaty.
But choreograph}’ is always
someone’s else’s art.
Her eyes need to be something revealing.
Like a woman who bares all
but using nakedness as a mere starting point.
And steered away from lust
Something ethereal.
Like stars.
That’s it.
Her eyes give birth to stars.

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