The Gay Cyclops

This is not the grass
I knew in my youth,
but the cock sounding the new morn,

and the rooftops --

her recumbent body

come from sleep with
hair dripping rain . . .
come down the ladder
with the keys to the doors --
these opened simple domestic
spaces

spread out and tremulous
as green ferns prescient
of rivers and mountains --,

a loving cyclops
meanwhile waits for us up ahead
having emerged, we’re
given to understand, from the tidy and complex pattern of

the pinewood
door of the closet in the bedroom,
and his twin
as we shall soon see goes
with him; and there is a third always
inverted and adrift

upside down with the gentle currents of their
passing.