Our argus stole the desired chance,
our second to embrace the dance
played in the music of our eyes,
for through her camera lens she spied
this picture they can’t see.
All troubadours would raze their lines
if they could signify the signs
that passed between our wrinkled eyes
now captured with our silent sighs
in this picture they can’t see.
We slipped in words that fell unheard
beyond the circle we contoured
with its diameter our eyes,
but their intent, revealing, lies
in this picture they can’t see.
And I am making sure this hurts,
recording everything in verse
so future furtive, longing eyes
will rend their reading with a cry
for this picture they can’t see.
The memory of you and me
lives in electricity,
the only feast of starving eyes
like ours that never gain the prize
in this picture they can’t see.
Burlesque Press 