V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics





What happens is that one eye loses interest. 
His children's faces look like painted plates.
His wife walks into the wallpaper    and the cat
disappears completely.
He doesn't tell anyone.    He doesn't complain.
He calls it his bad eye and gets used to it.
The other eye sees better than before.
Nothing is difficult.

When he sees nothing with the eye    he closes it
to watch the shapes that float behind shut lids.
Still there    a candle in the window    lightning over water.
His talent is for special effects.
He quits his job and seldom leaves the house.
The good eye shifts to heroic scale.

Each day he wakes to catch a different scene.
The patterns are landscapes    unpeopled and remote
places he has never seen.    These are the hills of Samarkand
he thinks    the Costa Brava    Patagonia
there is so much to see.
He can easily ignore three whiskers    thick as broomsticks
and his own life-sized reflection    in the closing green ellipse
pleading    Feed me.    Feed me.

© by Annette Basalyga


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