The screen on my eyes makes them feel
salt- and sun-burned, the eyes in their sockets,
that is, not the lids that gently resist,
when closed, what the organs receive
when open: forms unasked for,
swaying the brain without consent,
as when Olivia feels, in Twelfth Night,
the "invisible and subtle stealth" with which
Viola's beauty "creeps in" to her system.
"Even so quickly may one catch the plague?"
Yes, madonna, as quickly as
the "hopeless, little screen"
admits too much through too small a hole,
an eye feeding an eye,
water at pressure forced through
a thin nozzle, knocking back
the plant it's meant to revive.