These Eyes

I hear things through these cobwebby earlobes,

tight with a dozen half-decades of wax and things. 

I feel sure that mine are even better than bat's ears: 

I could score the morning song of the first bird in divided sleep;

Pins falling discreetly against mute floors

roar

like prideful lions at my door;

secrets of baobab leaves

and casuarina needles

can't keep by me.

I got God's ears;

Not His eyes.

These eyes belong to the 

Progenitor of Lies.