Chris Wayan, April 1983

Dedicated to other involuntary psychics
in a world that denies our existence.

I see this you, the who-you-are.
Textured circumference
Subtle as Star.
Arches of light, your hands reach out--
But inside, something blank--
No fusion at the core.

The Apples of the Sun are gold
Only to spectral eyes
Bred to taste the colorblush of skins.
I have no eye for light:
See through the summerdress, flowered of fire,
I rip the fair
Fabric of blaze,
Your radiant face...

I worm into your dark eyes
Ashamed all the way
Probe on down and in,
Larval, obscene,
Down your dark wounds
To convection's core.
Your privatest transmutations:
Gold, oxygen
Iron or soot--
I lay all bare
Your root.
Neutrino eyes.
Neutrino eyes!
I curse the god who gave me
Worms for eyes.

I gnaw and blemish sun on sun
Seeking that millionth one-
Lover with fusion at the core!
Who in that alchemy could burn
Larva to phoenix
And humaneyes me
For outer colors
So I'll be dazzled blind--
Bask in the sweet scent of shallow light--
Delirious rich breezes
Oozing from the rind.

I'd gladly leave your cyanide seeds
Private in their core
For other neutrino eyes to see.
Not many, but... we are.

Just to spell it out: some eyes see past the skin, the way neutrinos pass through suns. It's hard having neutrino eyes, for we see faults and secrets others miss. Embarrassment's common and romance is hard. It's probably good we're rare. But we're here. Not necessarily out of choice, but we're here.

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