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.
O at the Edges 
Reading this, it felt like a fist grabbed hold of my heart and squeezed. Beautiful, visceral, painful. Thank you for sharing.
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Thank you! That’s all I could ever ask of a poem.
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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!
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Just think of it as an updated version, perhaps set in Austin, of Homer’s one-eyed being’s tale. Or not. 🙂
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This one could give me nightmares. Maybe it’s because it ends on the word rendering…and there are goats and cyclops involved. Definitely will disturb my sleep.
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Hmm. Then I think I’ve done my job. 🙂
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The rendering got to me, too.
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Cyclops was a tad unpleasant at times…
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I really like your blog. A pleasure to come stroll on your pages. A great discovery and a very interesting blog. I will come back to visit you. Do not hesitate to visit my universe. See you soon.
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Thank you very much. I’ll be certain to visit your universe!
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