Eyeground Road

who are we,

although this sounds like a riddle,

whose work it is to trek all night,

around your eye-grounds,

on the roadside,

where afterimages of the stupid things you do by day,

are scanned and read on the soles of our feet,

such pleasure,

but in the depths of the eye-ground,

this may sound like a bad pun,

your agonies crystallize into pieces of agates that dot the road,

we pick them up and click them against each other,

to photograph the scattering sparks,

and send them to you in dreams,

what pleasure,

what a pleasure,

naturally,

when morning breaks at last,

we silently withdraw,

this may sound like a riddle,

but what are we,

for you,