Between our two oceans, what isthmus intrudes? What canal, like a liquid ladder, lets dark confluences Touch and merge, and more than merely merge, Become one in identity, one in intent? What prayer Vaults the dewy devotee among cloudy towers At the edge of the ocean, at the edge of the sky? Between burn and backburn, eyes' fire is leaping. Through fields of grainy difference, keen eyes are reaping-- We stand ablaze in the hay our eyes have harvested. In our nearness, my eye and your eye attempt to touch.... But only in our idea of an eye--a primitive pupil, A principle black tack centering Irritable iridae and their multitudinous hues-- Only in imagination may we meet, And, eye to eye, give the pleasure that we seek.