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.



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