A pair of eyes hang huge in dirty windows
Through glass whose flattened focus flattens light;
Ovals wide and watchful circle landscapes
Where trees and fields hang in sliding sight.
Eyes that have watched me on too many journeys,
Eyes staring out from Oxford or Green Lane,
That made the fields of Worcestershire a facemask
Disguising that blank face's empty pain,
Eyes who have caught my innards oozing outwards,
Eyes that have seen my hair's dissolving strands,
Eyes that have known my skull decay to ashes
And all the flesh curl peeling from my hands,
That chopped my digits into petri dishes,
That slung my brain sliced up in pickling jars,
That strung each organ out along a clothes-line,
That staked my skin spread out against the stars:
How can you see so much I only guess at?
Why can't you tell me what it is you find?
Why do I only see that empty outline
Obscuring other passengers behind?