Cyclops

 

Cyclops

Boundless loss, hemmed at the edges.
Another mended hole, wasted mornings.
Unwound, I towel off, extract loose hair.
Look for messages in the clouds, see
only deceit. I am sick with
joy. I no longer sing. My goats
shun me. Where is the love,
the missing fact. An albino
squirrel skitters up the oak.
I think of blood, of bone fragments.
The pleasures of rendering.

 

 

“Cyclops” first appeared in September 2019 at Recenter Press, a publisher “dedicated to sharing work that is grounded in both the spiritual and the material.” Many thanks to the editors for taking these pieces.

 

 

 

11 thoughts on “Cyclops

  1. I admit to being puzzled by this one, except the very rich opening line-and-a-half. Those few phrases stand alone and say so much … leaving a huge opening for passage (in/out – through) of limitless wisdom. One could debate whether the morning was wasted!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: Cyclops — O at the Edges – Orthometry

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