Originally published with Santa Ana River Review

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The average blink lasts one-tenth of a second, as fast as we lapse past each tunnel light. In the train car we’re in, zipping through New Jersey, I’m reading William Carlos Williams and falling in love with some boy’s eyes like molé sitting beside me, the same savory-sweetness you could dip your finger in. “So much depends / upon…” Finish the poem: A rattling pull-down food tray. A Jansport bag on the floor, ever-so-slightly sliding. A glance, the smiling squint eyes make, sleep still in them. I’m not allowed to say more on this. We blink about 15-20 times per minute; more when we’re talking to someone, even less when we read, and mine almost glaze over as I do, dryness growing like some furry creature has taken up residence on my cornea. For once, I’m not thinking of where we’re headed. Only eyes: how in space, an astronaut can’t cry. Tears build in balls and sting the eyes; they never fall. How at birth, babies see only in black, white, and gray; color comes later. How my own eyes, when rubbed, black out and create fireworks of color, itchiness fading to numb fluorescence. And you, now eyeing my book when I’m not looking, about to ask as soon as I blink them open, if I’d ever read Paterson.

https://sarreview.ucr.edu/amtrak-as-a-red-wheelbarrow/: Amtrak as a Red Wheelbarrow