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 
One of your puzzling poems – boundless possibilities (yet edges to each line, to the collective). Fun to reread and wonder … ignoring correlation with current US Senate politics (no need to spoil a good read!)
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Oh, I wrote this while wondering how Cyclops would manage in today’s Texas. He always seemed a sad, lonely figure, even if homicidal.
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An engaging mix of specifics and abstractions – bit like a zoom lens!
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Ha! I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes! And sometimes the zoom brings you visions you’d rather not see.
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wonderful writing… enigmatic, brilliant metaphor.
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Thanks very much!
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no problem. it’s a lovely piece!
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