The Eye In My Pocket Is Burning Holes

I find the eye in your drawer
and keep it for myself. No normal eye
no ovals, flecks, scars, eyebrows. A broken eye.
Carved and etched, ripped from sockets,
bleak dribbling, its last owner once cried,
it is a testament to your obliviousness.
So I take it.

I carry it around in my pocket, walk the loud
streets. These people do not know me.
The bricks on the ground, running into one another
colliding jaggedly, the eye rattles in my trousers.
I don’t know why you have it. You will never
tell me. The eye is dangerous, your secrecy
has intruded on my destruction.

I hide myself away with your stolen eye,
pile wood against the doors, set the place alight.
Wicked, dancing, evil flames, one day engulf me
allow me to wind away with the smoke and ash,
a flake in grey-stretched autumn skies.

I have locked the doors to the labyrinth.
I can hear the minotaurs singing.
I take the eye from my crumbling pocket,
trousers nearly gone away, ash. I look at it.
Stare back at me, blink and say something
with that look.

The Eye In My Pocket Is Burning Holes

I have to keep this part of you. Because with that eye
burning holes in my pocket, feasting,
you will come and find me.