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 more mysterious (thus intriguing) poems … title suggests (at least to me) that maybe I need more than a single perspective, and to let any perspective widen and round fully for maximum benefit … [So thanks – this enhances my “look” at medical issues and options, which almost surely is NOT what triggered your writing this poem!]
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Well, I was thinking about the Cyclops in The Odyssey, but moved to a contemporary Texas setting… 😄
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