the eye

it is anathema
stewing beneath the surface

but an eruption does not come
from the mouth
it is within the eye
beneath its lacquer finish
a pearlescent forever

and a small dot
like a peephole at the center

the lens of a kaleidoscope
the brain within

greener pastures

maybe
in this life

she will lick her lips
like lime of the margarita rim

and maybe his soul
will coil in a terra cotta pot
teetering on a window ledge

avant-garde girl
pondering the green grass

she'll remove him with her fingers
like a dead layer of skin

and the sky will discolor
into a rainbow