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by Wladyslaw Cieszynsky

how could he be so certain
of what he saw ahead
he turned
brushed back the heavy hair
and pushed a finger
into his empty socket saying

this eye
could not be trusted
it would roll everywhere
never lightly wholly on what it passed
its strayings unbridled
it tore itself
watching men deny its sight

this other
as he took it out
and cupped the movement in his hand
does not see
except as i throw it
down the smoke of road
and then follow
blind with dust
the only eye i possess.


Wladyslaw Cieszynsky is a Teaching Assitant in the writing program at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. In the last year, he has had poems in the Cottonwood Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Quartet and many others. (Spring 1975)

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