These days, my eyes are red when I riseand leak intermittently throughout the day,lifting pink to my left cheek, saltysmears announcing my mood: maudlin, probably.I worry about the raised white pills floatingin the grayish sag framing orbs ordinarilyexclaimed and celebrated as crystal-bluereminders of the soul of a person. (a poetwho carries the weight of wondering whyher eyes leak all day though she swearsshe isn’t crying) (oh she’s sad all right,anxious too, but those eyes, they just leak)They just leak. That’s how it is now with eyes.That’s how it is with mood and soul and poetry.
Peggy has the Real Toads writing about eyes.