by Harriet Torr

I’m sitting here on the city street
waiting for contact, that moment when
a pair of eyes tells me I’m it.
Not the eyes of a shepherd reflecting
the lovely landlines of unlit valleys
where birds burn their wires;
nor the lunatic eyes of lovers
replaying the fingered foreplay
to the final f___.
Not the eyes of a dead man
before the ointment and the stitch
watching my fear scuttle his lip;
nor the eyes of the gunman
to whom each blink
is a frontier lifted
but the eyes of a blind man
when light, like a leopard,