Few eyes are innocent—the gaze
Of any infant grades and weighs
Each looming face for ill intent,
While miles away a hawk has spent
Its morning quartering a hill
To scry a vole—to stoop and kill.

In meeting rooms, lean hawks in suits
Lock glances as their substitutes
Debate the toss—or shift their ground:
An eyeblink—and we lose the round!
While far away, in foreign skies,
A silent drone sprouts thermal eyes.

A warrior’s vacant ten-mile stare
Has failed to spot death hovering there;
The flirting looks of brides-to-be
Weave snares within their mystery;
Geronimo grants his parole
While cameras steal his people’s soul.

Few eyes are innocent. Yet who
Dares view their own—as others do?