Walking talking things alight tonight the train of boredom,
boring into placid pupils,
praying for a jolt to suddenly derail
stellar or maybe minor; minarets of money,
us, makers of the artificial eyes,
an art in grinding lenses into spheres of bending light,
in part it starts with plano blanks like newborns from the womb;
life's generators shaping into form.
Askance a swollen pride, glancing at the date,
three years have passed in-situ
with my pupils sedate;
still here and still walking, still talking of things other,
my rail somehow merged with the others' southern course.
But I am dilated, ahead elated love,
implicit in the placid is contentedness.
I generate my lenses lusting for the future,
fast as it approaches, waiting for her breast.