They're in the pockets of your second-best jacket, lint
sticking to the corneas, the irises an impossible mirror.
They're beneath the chair pushed up under the
doorknob. They're in your head, but backwards.
Useless without light. They're rolling around in the knife drawer,
communing with each serrated edge. They're in the breadbox,
singing. They let you hold them, once, when they were new,
but now they yowl churlishly at the door, demanding
to be let out, to take a train in both
directions at once, to understand friction. They're gathering kohl,
upending eyeshadow palettes, uncurdling
yoghurt into milk. They play the three-card monte;
you never find the queen of spades. She smirks
with her ears. She has the eyes you've always wanted.