Today's Liberal News

Claire DeVoogd


I like your eyes. Their startling weather
like the bract of the bougainvillea, a leaf
turned suddenly dawn, peach
or cloud, drawn out from the sun
and dark water. No. Your eyes are arid
and say nothing. I am looking at
you. I don’t know what I’m thinking.
You look at me—what, you say; nothing
I say. No. Tell me something.