Three Poems

I.

It is just
this itsy-bitsy,
teenie-tiny,
distance
between
my pupils
and
the corners
of
my eyelids,
yet bigger
than
some distance
to a star,
this feeling,
imbedded
in
everything
and
nothing
and
places
in between,
of knowing
anything,
seems
just
out of sight,
unless
knowledge
and
mystery
spell out
something
bigger
than
them
both.


II.

There is
a strange face
amidst faces
in a crowd.
It flies by
like a scrap
of
crumpled paper
tossed
from a taxi.
A fleeting
momentary
mutual
strobe light
meeting
of the eyes,
then gone.
That
was the extent
of our lives
together.
Later
in my dream
my brain
had a dream
about
itself
and paid
no attention
to me.
In fact,
it seemed
to find
my
too
conscious
quirkiness
an
inconvenience
of
burdensome
baggage,
and
it seemed
quite
annoyed
by my musing
about
some
stranger's
eyes.

III.

Beneath the icy burn
of a white light
that sliced
the night
like so much pie,
wrapped
in a sheet
of silver rain,
and shoeless,
Her hair clung
all about her
until
she spun it
like a sailor's
sloppy mop
out over
the empty
parking lot,
mopping up
love's liquor
in the deepening
pool
around her.