Eye

Enclosed within, the cosmic circus, sits
folded into four final squares,
which, waiting with beleaguered lines,
is still. The eye is shuttered,
it's photographic chamber recording only the pink insides,
the dancing dots of dark colours, white colours
like sparkles on a child's birthday card.

White electric light shifts in chromium circles
above the eye, swinging as silent and secret as circling birds.
There will be no acuity.
Twenty days or nights conceived
an ample belly of omens;
but now the underwater warble is a breathless, distant
hiccupping of sound.
Absolute fact intrudes. Closed eyes,
no matter how revolted, let it in.

Five queenly wits were lauded: unruly,
wild, wisteria-haired woman. Catch the bright eyes,
blue as the Nordic lights above the interminable white,
catch them and hold them and whirl-giddy as
a snowflake in a bedlam spring.
See the eyes, caught on the scrag-rock that rumbles
with water spume, watching the sun's brassy glare
on the flung spray as wave after wave beats
its sides brutally.

Still now, blinds pulled down, the eye is dark
and watching the technicolour ballet inside.
As if on a mud-mattress, the untamed temptress
of storm and feral chastity, now lies with legs bent
and bracketing the bowl of her body, that small sacred space
which was wrenched open and the magic broken.

The eye doesn't look for the clench of blood just as the ear
doesn’t listen for the whirring whine of wires which
she stills under. Navel-knit and with a groan,
king crowned himself in claret.
The eye and the ear, however, don’t feel.
And the final four folds are crumpled
Mouth in the moaning Ogape
of the tidal moon.