Anthology of Cyclops

Thunder tears up her sleeve. And one-eyed
cloud, her one eye clouded over
with junk, turns to face
the monks in hailstorm, busy threading beads. One hook
snares a live thing.

And the sun under sun, under layers of fur and skirt—

Dawn. The fog
sheep wake in droves. Crescents of breath. An overdose.

I am muffled in pillow. In middle plains.
(Son of an ocean. Knife in the eye.)
A key jiggles in lock at the cave entrance.

The monks begin to cart away the weather.
Wan pink squares of light, after wan pink squares of light—
bolts and electrodes, gas and wick—
No one breathes the helium.
No one breathes.

The oasis' madman is still a madman.
And in that oasis, his axes
sprout through like succulents. Like prickly red beards.
Like alarm and fatal map: You are here. Red X.

Often, the chewed-up moon will spread her legs and moan.
O sea.
I hear one voice, but two are speaking—

*Published in Dragonfire