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The Good Doctor Muses,Beetle-pupil swell, perpetually redhalo-iris fist-sized and yellowed-tearedthe abscess winks, another eye for Godto see sticks shake in our hands over sodas we water witch the fields desperateto pay the lancing fee. Can He ferretout of our dowsing, the smallness of our faith?The wound's eye is warming. Its soft worm-lashesreact to each hobble, each shift of wooltrousers crossing and separating skin's legs.The new eye's rheum a puckered blueing scabinterlacing the veins as gold and the soil.At least that is what my father has claimedwhen he answered by calling upon God's name.
M. Rather (Mon,) studied this question.
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