Floaters
See the boy deep in the winter field, All zipped up in goose down, knee-deep in snow. The dead grasses stabbing through the surface Look like eyelashes, as if he’s standing Not in a field but in a field Of vision. He knows that he’s a poet, That, like the falling snow, it has fallen For him to see. But not the snow solely. Between his blue eyes and the white field Floaters float, their segmented shapes coiled Like those microorganisms he gazed Upon that morning through the twinned lenses Of a microscope in school. A splash of Tap water on the slide, then a flimsy Plastic square slipped over it. When the bell Rang, he couldn’t imagine drinking from The drinking fountain, taking all of those Billions in. Home, he’d thought it would be good To walk alone through the winter field, To be the sole thing in the field’s eye. Instead, it’s what’s in his eyes that he sees: Collagen in the vitreous layer like words Written on the snow, in the sky.