The pupils of the eye become smaller as we age, shrinking to a mere third of their robust, youthful size. You knew this, even if you were not aware of the vanishing look in your grandmother’s window, the reptilian ooze of warm blood over the cliff. Open wide. Please. Open wider, so that we might forget the collapsing, the narrowing portals of grace, the cold neutron stars, in to which we are crushed. In this gaping sun filled array of gently swaying green, wide opening pink petals, and blue azulejo sky, I lament the constriction of your pupils more fervently…