Your ways are not our ways, yet
we are like you.
Maybe that means your eyes are boxes,
boxes with no floors or ceilings:
four sides like the winds rushing
from the corners of the earth.
I've only ever thought of you in circles; the idea
of points and intersections drives me wild.
Your eyes are open boxes full of fire. Tell me,
what do you see when they look down,
your left foot on genesis and your right
just past cataclysm, straddling time?
I will die if you won't tell me, Love;
my heart's so wound by circles it will choke
and freeze if you don't speak to me.