Punch Drunk in the Last Arcade

By what eye to measure shape
cast upon a shade drawn
between a candle and its flame?

A gap, a blank, two hide sides
of one cave—man hungry Cyclops or
Argus Panoptes? Eyes all over

the place, every direction at once
now and then. Eyes on hands,
belly, hips. Eyes on yesterday

and tomorrow. Eyes on eyes
looking into mine for hints,
sure signs, ties to the main

attraction, center stage, where
barkers wave tickets
to a sold out show.


Jefferson Crow

About Jefferson Crow

Jefferson Crow lives and writes in Portland, Oregon.
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