My Dear Wolfish Dreamboat, Stand Still

by Paige Lewis

I don’t want to alarm you,
but I’m pretty sure there are men
living on the surface of your eyes.
I can see them pairing up. Little
umlauts—fighting, maybe, or else
dancing. Do you think they know
life as you know it—as an arcade
where every good game is broken
and no one tells you, so you waste
token after token. Or would they
have more sense than that? I bet
these men love it most when you
get tired because they get tired,
too. When you press your palms
against your eyes, do they see
the sparks of light and create new
names for stars? Give them more.
Give them a moon—here, balance
this egg on your nose. Oh darling,
now they’re building a telescope!
Do you think they can see me?
Clearly? Does it hurt?