I could not stare into anyone’s eyes too long. It was like staring openly at the sun. The light was too much to bear. Not to mention, within the stunning field of light projected from eyes were congealed specks and motes of shame, melancholy, longing … so much more. The eyes were ports for so much more. The eyes also bear a strong form of jazz. The notes and rhythms interweave and flood my eyes looking. My eyes looking at other eyes looking at me: a dizzying and disorienting foreplay. Foreplay not as precursor to sex but rather the intimacies of childhood’s inheritance revealed in eyelock. In eyelock we meet and look away even when still looking at. We look away within. Then the eyes follow suit. Sometimes they don’t and you go deeper and foreplay leads to frictive rubbing of tenderest wounds. The eyes beacon aspects of self—hidden, remote, sublime—high-wattage, and it goes into me, a sudden jolt and subtext, and I slip 20,000 leagues under sea change and moveable dark. Once I sink, I want to keep sinking, I want to stay there. I savor the absolute dark and silence as siblings holding me, cradling me, I go aaahh quietly, I sigh and glow softly. The eyes, in their staggering catalog and source material surplus, are a lot to digest.