Makrókheir

A tutor I met from Cappaducia,
Home of hills in white,
With hands as long and godly thin
As a lost Andalucian delight
Within such market throngs,
Clothing of mute go-betweens
And azimuth mosaics
Draped over impossibly
Bulbous urns concealing frogs
Carried on the blue heads
Of astrophysically bright
Prophetesses and their sons,
Absorbeing my attentions
In orbs of their golden horizons.
Relief had carved a mitre,
His hieroglyphics spoke
Through tokens in mouths
For passage to an afterlife,
Though sometimes also of loss
So profound as to stay unspoken;
Or if not unspoken then staccato;
Yet all that remains of his riches
Are in seven broken glass cabinets
Beneath a taxidermied albatross
In a museum, in a long-ago Morocco.

Scylla

Sea-millipede hair,
Ocean groundhog mare
And coral-hog stare,
Mouldy Gorgonzola-stench
Infused and clenched
Into the newly drenched
Visions of whalers
As they sail too near
To her slowly growing
And highly attuned ears,
Two harpoons in array
Aimed from the back of
Her thoracic majesty
Towards their deepest fears,
Ironic demise, inevitably.

I dreamt of this revenge
Bare chested in my bed,
Possibly to escape from the thought
That I am the cause
Of my own death.

In this way,
This is why I stay anchored
Under my duvet all day.