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
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
to watch the shapes that float behind shut lids.
Still there a candle in the window lightning
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
pleading Feed me.
© by Annette
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