Narrative

Suddenly, we are alone 
in a bruised field 
where the wings of 
swarming locusts 
beat us senseless, 
and with our skin crumpling 
like paper, magenta and darkening-- 
our eyes close. 
That's what I thought of 
when I spoke to the florist 
today, old hands shearing roses, 
her eyes the hue of 
dirty light. 
I bet they were like mica once, 
long before the blood became 
corrupted, chest hissing sift sift sift 
her life far removed, and cold. 
Our eyes are not ours, they are given, 
and they close when something 
terrible must be done. 
Like us, the eyes come back like water, 
and the body, like us, will be gone.

The Shearing