Despite the ghostly frame,
There must be eyes beneath that hat.
And a beating heart beneath the sweat-stained shirt.

Look at how he guides his cart
Along the breaking blue unknown
With ease—

Without the gift of sight,
a dance like that...
No, there must be eyes beneath that brim,

Straddling a nose,
Blinking back rivulets of sweat,
Fixing a vacant look on the supple sand.

Yes, there must be eyes underneath that hat,
Somewhere inside 
that stone-still head slung low.

Ahead the cart's brass bell 
rings out to sea,
as the vendor shrinks from view.

Surely there are eyes beneath that hat,
Ones carved from precious jewels.

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