Con

My eyes were the portals,
circles and ovals,
to your thoughts
conjoined to the screens, and
in that way,
open and scanning,
but not aware of
time or fear.
Only the blind tapping goes on
like every day,
tearing up things that have
less honor, then.
My fingers clutch the arrow,
but never nocking, weeping,
my words the bow -
         and your eyes were never lovely
         and the shape was unknown of your bloody nose
         and I was never confident to hear of the rash
(or to see through scratched metal frames)
         echoes in the passageway of wires,
(though I confess all in scattered letters.)