Love, your eyes move
On as unfathomed errands as those dragonflies move
Sudden ways on,
Between your lover and the ground you paint his gaze on:
Am I transfixed?
The painter boasts that in her finished work what stands fixed
And expressed is
Profounder than appearances – and such a test is
This I set yours:
That when you turn your canvas, is the gaze that met yours
Its innermost? Or do my thoughts, the most clandestine,
Break from cover
Only when, as now, your gaze turns from your lover
To depict his?
And should you ask him how your gaze should interdict his,
Love, how say how,
Since till you see me see you when, as there’s no way how,
You don’t see me,
You can’t know what I saw, nor why such instants free me.