He prowls the city at night
Or sometimes the beach at night
Looking up alleys
Or behind breakwaters
Searching, always searching for his eyes.
Those two acetylene torch nozzles
In his head cut great, gaping holes
In fog, women, doors,
As though his eyes might . . . might
This time be in there, waiting
To be found, picked up, replaced
In his head (he would junk
The torches) but this time placed in
Correctly, facing out at the world
Not backwards looking into scars and blood
The way they were at birth,
That way he endured for years,
That way he finally couldn’t any longer
And tore them out, mushy, pale from what they’d seen.
But now, where did they go
When he growled and heaved them
Tears and all, stringy, into blackness?
He prowls now, still wiping his hands
On his pants, searching, burning gaping holes,
Forgetting a lot, missing a lot,
On the beach more now
Timing the tides now
As though he considers moving in,
Living there, alone, in the dark,
Searching, always searching for his eyes.