Looking into the irises of the doctor,
you think of salmon leaping from a stream
in all their breathless inquiry,
which is what happens when you look
into the watercolor eyes of Christ⎯
It’s always the same thing:
The salmon certain in uncertainty,
their scales sheening like oil spills
left in a parking spot,
a little too bold for my taste.
Also, it’s like avoiding your father.
You are hiding, and he looks for you
behind each locked door,
coming nearer and nearer…
What else can you do but ignore him?
Either way, after, you’re riding alone in a taxi⎯
But who cares about that?
What’s important is to avoid looking too closely
into the irises of your father, those two stars,
deceptive with their dying light.