All I can see is the unreadable darkness
through the mirrored deep cyclones
that sip and blur the spiraling iris surrounding them.
No brail speckles them
for me to read through my touch.
No pages inside the pitted globes to study
with my own eyes.
There are no letters within the shimmering blue rings
that spell out why we’re sitting
on this paint-peeled bench,
that creaks through the lifespan
of a burnt orange sunset.
I still read their wordless message backwards.
Did the whirlpools change course, or source?
They swish then sway, right then left.
To watch their liquid spin makes me dizzy.
I am unable to read the morse code on your face:
those two black, blunt, liquid pupils.
Should I be silent, or will you listen?
Both actions are spelled with the same letters
but I can’t tell them apart.