One eye waters, so
tears well, unintended, and
drip, trickle down; I look
half-sad, a tad confused, and
my dominant side blurs; the
liquid world smears
and refracts into webbed rivulets
and tidal cataracts.
The right eye pulls
the weight of water
to sight's whirlpool;
its wheel-well pivots vision
into a rain-laden swirl.
Eye-lashes unfurl like umbrella tines
to brush the pulse of water
into a swollen wall of salty brine,
and over the lids red-tinged lip.
It doesn't even happen when I'm emotional,
unless
the amber flow of suds
consumes my soul.
The curtains let light through,
yellow, and then blue
as morning's hung-over glow
moves towards afternoon's
guild laden bough of low shadowed leaves
and into evening's angled eaves, and I
angle my arm, tragically bent
in forms forlorn
across the right plane of my face,
a hung-over disguise; the un-sleeping angle
of the formerly drunk.
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