See the boy deep in the winter field,
All zipped up in goose down, knee-deep in snow.
The dead grasses stabbing through the surface
Look like eyelashes, as if he's standing
Not in a field but in a field
Of vision. He knows that he's a poet,
That, like the falling snow, it has fallen
For him to see. But not the snow solely.
Between his blue eyes and the white field
Floaters float, their segmented shapes coiled
Like those microorganisms he gazed
Upon that morning through the twinned lenses
Of a microscope in school. A splash of
Tap water on the slide, then a flimsy
Plastic square slipped over it. When the bell
Rang, he couldn't imagine drinking from
The drinking fountain, taking all of those
Billions in. Home, he'd thought it would be good
To walk alone through the winter field,
To be the sole thing in the field's eye.
Instead, it's what's in his eyes that he sees:
Collagen in the vitreous layer
Like words floating on the snow, in the sky.