Your eyes are deer
In a meadow
And our conversation
This wood.
All I see
Are bits and pieces,
Flits and dashes
Of white and brown,
Dancing through
And prancing past
The trunks of
‘Lucky’ and ‘Way’
‘Music’ and ‘Though’
‘Existential’ and ‘Consternation’
Whose foliage branches
Out into the next,
Shading you in
Their clauses,
Obscuring, with their
Walnut periods and
Acorn commas, that
Which I wish to see;
Not so much your eyes,
But rather,
To see them
See me.