The Eyes Have It

Before a yellow-eyed Jesus,
a blue-eyed, crying Quixote
curious Charlie stood mute.
The large, informal compositions
seemed fairly formulaic stylizations
which he could not quite disregard;
so stood he there bombarded
by symbolic associations-

bearded, broken men who railed,
wrung-out and wronged
on the warped-wrack
of the wide world.

Felt he wonderfully manipulated,
evoked emotion tickled
in his untrimmed nostrils,
his eye-wells swelled
with sick-sweet melancholy
for these heart-sick two,
so-mythologized, blue,
trialled and tribulated.

And though the math was fuzzy,
the solution struck him squarely
in his earth-wet roots-

everything equilibrating,
seeming to indicate
the good, rare-trodden path.