Monday, October 14, 2013
The nymph drowses, doped in a bed of wildflowers,
Swats a mosquito from her neck without waking.
(Insects adore her liquid breath and pollen skin.)
Polyphemus has been watching her sleep for hours,
His great limbs grown stiff, his heart a small earth quaking.
A thousand desires blast his brain, not one a sin,
Which is unknown to him: hold her body captive
(He knows to love her as a man would destroy her),
Roast and swallow her whole, or he might even give
Her to his fellows, a joyful alms of murder.
But he'll do none of these things because of his eye.
He sees less than senses -- all is apparition
A second sight would shape to vivid perception.
She might be less than she seems, he thinks. Let her lie.