The Eye of Me, The We of Us

My eye looks upon the eye of me
in its reflected mimicry
and discerns that eye’s returning gaze —
its eyeful symmetry.

What I does each eye see? 
Does each eye see what the other sees
only inverted like a circus trick?
And if not, what could it be?

It is the inner eye of my inner I
upon which I must rely
to discern those scattered truths
nestled in a tangled undergrowth of lies.

I seek my eye’s gaze for its truth:
would my eye ever lie to me?
Just as my eye winks – lone wolf
it thinks – the eye regarding my eye

winks in synchronicity: one of them                                                   
knows a joke and the other winks
it knows it too, but does it?
Which eye knows and which pretends?

What joke?  And here you come,
my bridal one, to join the fray.
And what does your eye make of this? 
Your eye to which mine swivel

as if magnetized O love,
O my dangerous love
who took my I and made it we.
We don’t see eye to eye (who does?)

and yet we are the we of us,
the trunk, the branch,
the spindly, blossoming tree of us,
the him and her and they of us,

you and I and these little two
that form the tumbling
noisy, jumbling we that
we’ve become, more than two
ever were, much more,
much more than one.