It's been night for hours, the eye swallowing in the flourescent street lamp,
which it's draped with her lid and peers down into the crowded city street,
spies the freeway on the left where cars and trucks roar and thrash at the air,
buzzing with white yellow photons like a flower's pollen disturbed by bees,
or the spores of a puff fungi, kicked into the air in great flumes,
bearing light, sounds of bus brakes, funelled air, cigarette smoke,
and the narrative voices of hipsters.
I sit on the floor of the eye, the lid wafting over my body,
forming a triangle with my toes, nails raised to my face,
stained, wet, posed before the cracked flesh of the fly-eye.
A single bulb illuminates the amber varnished pine panels, the eye-lid blinking.
And from where I sit on the floor, the fruit opens its mouth,
a mute chick's, brilliantly red, obsequious.
I split the mottled red crust into pythagorean pieces.
It's blood pours into the blackened spaces of the floorboards,
draws a crooked line down my leg, as my teeth eagerly
scrape and scoop out its fish eggs. My mouth radiates tangency, filth, corruption.
Above me, the eyeballs roll to reveal only white,
and by body revels in the sensory presence.