And the dazzling sight of immortality in the gaze of a lover.
There was a blur before the developing eyes could focus;
they learn to share a field of vision and later understand
the recursion of eyes in eyes, camera to camera; it sears
through Englishness, or Englishness is not looking unless
from a bridge or a horse; Englishness averts its eyes; even the
eyes of the English would tie themselves in knots but if you
stop speaking we can decontextualise like a meme; love is like
a meme but infinitely folded, the eye-seeing-eye, the love of
repetition, love that bursts open a nervous laugh.
And with the lustre of angels wilt thou kindle my gaze,
Whose birth-place is in the dusk?
I look upon you as the untouched snow reflects the sun,
but this says more about formation of identity than
our contrasting natures; our natures are not opposed:
we both have eyes to see each other in our own image.
But as recompense for our eyes, the farther we wonder from earthly shores,
The clearer do they behold its earliest sacred glory and marvel thereat.
We cannot live eye to eye; there are checks to be made,
proofreading. We must not think of it as proofreading
or check-making, that beholding of beholding. Did Turing
not believe in the eyes of his lover? He was made to suffer.
