I’ve always wondered how those giant metal owls are supposed to scare away other birds. On top of wooden cabins and metal poles on docks. The only thing scary about them is they’re eyes, I suppose. But I mean, everyone’s eyes are somewhat scary. I want to know what is inside of them. Eyes I mean. What if everything we’ve ever seen was stored within they’re every layer of color and indifference, instead of floating inside of our heads spinning around like ghosts, every picture and image captured, every misunderstood concept you witnessed under tables and on staircases, sat in between blankets of hazel, blue and browns and spurts of yellow.
Despite my immediate thought, statues can indeed see. Frozen naked women standing still positioned to miss their lover, one arm cupping the fragile body of her child, thirsting for her breast, legs flailing. The other arm out, hand searching for the grasp of her husband. We walk by these still stoned bodies, marbled finger tips and etched strands of hair. We assume they cannot see us staring past them.