Surveillance

To look straight into the eyes
is to see the thing itself that lives—

the ghost who occupies the form
and who watches you in turn.

To stare into those glassy pools
of jasper, lapis and peridot, one sees

the blackened spinning spokes
of thought, of life, of shimmering pulse.

Careful to avert our gaze from orbs
that like the sun, burn bright, we

duck our heads and with furtive
glance, avoid falling into cold,

hot depths, or the chance that
in the lens we’ll glimpse

the reflection of God’s
own terrible face.