Saccade

They have no sense of what they’re looking at, Unless the object moves. (Or so he’s read; who knows if that’s the case?) A painted bird’s an empty analogue To the oblivious cat. And it is not his still familiar face So much as that distinctive gait which proves The master to his dog, Who frolics for him like an acrobat. His eyes need movement too, but make their own. His most fixated gaze— On one small figure in a Bruegel scene, Or on the camber of his lover’s lip He worships unbeknown, As though no time or change will supervene— Aflicker with saccade, adjusts and strays Minutely to equip His mind to take in what is being shown. And maybe consciousness employs saccade As well, and flickers back And forth, now in the world, now, briefly, out— The way the gum tree’s canopy overhead Flickers with light and shade, So every leaf is momently in doubt— Its faith saved by such intermittent lack From being surfeited, Its constant sense being constantly unmade.