The Best Eyes

The best eyes to me are always the ones
with a slight cast to them
as they focus on things unseen,

such as the ghosts of vintage pets
tapping across the old linoleum floor
of the tilted kitchen,

or the glimpses
of long dead children darting
into the hall closet to hide,

children who are not there 
when we jerk open the door
to catch them, though we can hear them giggling

somewhere else in the house.  Aren’t those
the best eyes?  I may not love the person
who owns them, but I cannot deny

my love for those eyes that can see
what I cannot, eyes I admire
for their cursed accuracy

now that I am so blunted
by age and pain and cynicism
that I am trying to stop believing in such things

before my sorrow
at never seeing them
can crush me, at last, into nothing but blind dust.