His eyes are arguing about the world,
if it is bright or shadowed, if the sun
ate clouds for breakfast or sat, sulky-twirled
its thumbs in heavy-curtained chambers. One
green iris is a ring cold-beaten slight.
The other closes like a sutured cut
against the light. I don't know which is right
or which one wins if both are slipping shut.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem