Fred Aiken Writing

behold the eye,
behold the beauty,
as the latter is held
and fondled
and interpreted
in more ways than one could count,
as tiny tendrils poke
through porous mush
flapping around betwixt
the auditory mounts rattling around
somewhere up there
in some fashion or another
while telling, in such a way that 
it doesn't come across as too pushy or demanding,
but across the table,
or horizon,
depending on one's vantage,
lies the beauty
of one's eyes,
lies the light twisting
in a passage
that slowly dims, dims, dims