Mydriasis

Poetry’s pupils
Are never too wide.
If the vision’s blurred,
It’s irrelevant.
There’s not a body

That needs to avoid
Stumbling and falling.
It’s an excrescence,
A compound being
Of compound beings

That happens to have
Students with wide eyes,
Framing devices.
The thrills are inside,
All those drugs of life

Poetry inhales.
The open-minded
And confused visions
Are merely symptoms.
The point’s not the poem

Except to the poem.
The experience
Belongs to poets,
Which makes us, the words
Left hanging, jealous.