Recipe

stare for four minutes at
the milk-gaze on the eyes
in front of you until you begin
to see what happens
when a word is repeated so much
that it breaks down into disparate, illogical parts—
twitch, flare, the white halo cuting all else into
the nothingness only seen in maps, small furs
lining the pit, seedscrawling, the whisper-trace
of veins like on the sides of buildings
where all the vines have been ripped off,
a window or a globe or a bunch of little cells
conspiring to the miracle
of being seen.

blinking, and similies about stars are cliche.
remembering how the colors froze
and ripened in the climate of
hours, years, is not.  and if love is
a decision, then let the names of
our weeds and insects discuss what
to do while they inhabit our blind spots
and break down the things we leave
there to die.