in the center of the eye
there is another eye on the back
to the eye that looks at us
things grow in it that are no longer ours
landscapes we haven't seen yet
stand up and pay attention
check the blackboard of our brain and on it read
the books we have read and forgotten
check the deep folds of that plutonic mass
and find leftover food from childhood
faces that escaped memory
leaves that the storm has reached with its teeth
words that the conscious eye ignores and are there
rotting like the corpse of an ant,
that eye sometimes detaches and falls
to blood and rocks among the purple waves and warns
and shines like a lighthouse-buoy like the eye of a demon
or of a god with a saw and sees in our bones
patios or docks and also sees the death that somehow
is already there waiting for lunch
the truth inside a cage, there will be other eyes
maybe bigger or smaller
inside or outside of us, to which eye we turn our backs
in which blood we fall and buoy illuminating bones
that we confuse with patios or docks, other gardens sense us,
they know us in there
back to heaven
reading forgotten books.