I hold a full eye up

to my squinted face and look

at you framed

through it. When you arc

it isn’t me you turn toward.

Above all of this hundred years’

worth of transformation,

there we are, but

here you are,

not smiling yet. Silently we practice

and you look into what would be my eyes

but is instead what will be the audience, later.

It’s instinct to clamber upwards

feeling out our nerve with bare hands,

frictioned feet.

You tip your head up and dare gravity

to poke you back.

I press my fingers to where

you told me to put them.

It all looks very natural.