The Misfortune of Shallow Sight
By Ernest Williamson III

she slid through the sackcloth
like a silkworm
gracing the sweet softness
of aching movement
of slender shaved legs
and her hair was blessed
with a kink
golden brown
fresh
clean
like the liking
to a week-old kitten
her hands were sweet perfumes
penetrating the dermis
with intent on making man smile
without reason
but her eyes were darted and gray
uneasy to my own sights
yet her scent
the vitality of her ways
made me a bit greater than a man with common sight
her lack was no metaphor needed
for this iteration
I give you
in fact
my eyes are now driblets for hawks
carrion for foolish men
who seem to eat with their eyes
I am blind
and so happy to confess
to all of the noisy permutations
of ogling formalities
proud beings
with tearless eyes