This image of a hole
planted behind my eyes.

Swivelled whirlpool that curves
right through me. Central bole

sawed from the tree of nerves.
This is the urge that lies

behind the throb of seeing.
This is the barest force

giving up to the wish
of whatever greater being:

little transparent fish
dragged on its one course

through forests of coral flowers
seeking the break of day.

Whatever way this power
pulls me: . . . ok . . . ok . . .