The eyes are silent until one listens. A doctor I know can hear your eyes turning softly like leaves on Thoreau’s pond–one chooses Walden, a tabula rasa, the seasons written on water.
The doctor, my doctor, hears a blind child’s eyes with their animal faith, the essence whispered of thousands of consequential worlds.
Every eye is the electrolysis of drama. Each eye holds the predicament and labor of
life, even a blind one with its involuntary confusions.
In the flux and rumble of the sea, a hagfish, a long tunnel of living darkness evolved twin patches that sensed the light–diurnal, hunting, feeding.
How beautiful its ephemeral hallucinations must have been, driving upward into sun.
How beautiful to have seen in vacuo: light as light, light as the existence of unseen things. How beautiful to hear the light throughout your body, paleocene glimmerings of life itself.
The eyes are silent until you listen with ardor. One sees they were never silent. The optic nerve of the hagfish, a tuning fork, the vibrations of uncritical instinct…
& the lamprey, first creature with risen, exophthalmic lenses, cameras of the deep lakes, what fanciful histories could its eyes tell? Black animal with no mouth, who drifts in and out of consecutive visions…
A blind child knew all the rains of summer & one night, beyond the pines, he saw the moon through two glass dishes, which, of course, they called his eyes.
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Planet of the Blind 