Eye

An eye as big as a fist looks up at me
from the river. Crystal rods sweep over
the dented green iris. At the outer
corner: glutinous, congealed folds
as of some prima materia.
The white of the eye absorbs the naked sky.
The image tilts and sways — a photograph
developing inside an olive wash.
I lie on sand, my glasses angled again
to catch the sun; in the darkroom beneath
my hat, the flesh round my eye is writ large,
pouched and pore-pocked, the iris blue-black satin.
Lashes are thorn-sharp reeds rimming a pool;
the eye's white has become a tiny beach.