Floaters © 1995
by Joan Papalia-Eisert

Slim chances
in my fat eyes
accumulate like daily dust
in anything ornate

They're in every striation of my irises
every movement of the vitreous gel
until all i can see
is the worst that can happen

My mother told me
that when i was born
the nurse said  
i had a blue veil over my  head
That cellular debris
would give me second sight

Later, in the west end ghetto
an italian in a sunday suit
peered at me in the back seat
of my father¹s car
and told me about my eyes

He couldn't see
they were crowded already
My only cognition has been
on an imageless future