The Point of View

I’ve sketched
pencil flicks for spokes of iris,
faint & thick, & sprinkled muscle pores
on a wheel. The eye was inevitable, said experts
on the radio: the physics of light is too rich with code,
too rich for the eye to not exist, to not evolve over & over.
Eyes, then, a good idea. & you couldn’t have happened to me
without looking. With this trick of physics, I draw you hard into
that perfect convex, brimming shine like a thick cup of molasses,
like a white sheet on a black road after a rain in the valley I biked
through, skimming the ring of landscape. We listen to slow jazz:
Mobley in How Deep Is the Ocean, a low romantic blow I don’t
have words for, like a thunder, like a childhood monsoon, like
that small delicious trapped feeling in a car wash, the lovely
thumping dark. Care to dance? We can behold each other
& interpret how deep as question, more as wonder.
If physicists could peer down from the rafters
& trace our fractal steps they would see
pull & expanse, a world-
dilating swirl.