EXCERPT: from Passenger Flight EYES Eyes peer in at me, in dreams, in crowds. Eyes look up from desks, around edges of partitions. Eyes bear down at me, in corridors, washrooms, department stores, subway tunnels. Electronic eyes in walls record my every movement. Camera eyes track my vehicle, issue tickets in my name. At the border, a lens records my iris; another images my voice. I pay for this: a surtax, to keep me safe. How did I, supernumerary, become so important? But in my insignificance is danger: they imagine I must seethe in fury, have live ammo strapped to me, readied to explode. And indeed, tucked within me like a dagger, I do have that fury: I too am a digital camera, recording their transgressions. Even as I type, at midnight, in this cottage in the country: scuffle, scratch: a masked face, cloaked spy at the window. Hey! I shout. Raccoon.   BEHIND THE EYELIDS Behind the eyelids are layers of paisley, a shifting, breathing Persian carpet. Rectangles form, spread, dissolve. Rows of granules become spuming waves, meshes that sway in an ocean current. Networks of veins, patterns of leaves. Now crepuscular darkness brightens to orange, becomes sun behind fog: I grope through a room, touch a warm lampshade; slide my hand along a wall.