What it was, literally, ever offered, at-their
epoch of shame, an elliptical equating of
Olympus-less Polyphemus, positioning,
suspect to be conferring, four
randomized atoms, a veil and a sea or
an alighting of the aye, a dry outer bank,
and Irene’s mother dipped into narrative
context, or a T-bone, of double-breasted
neck, one grave voice—in spirited sleep.
And remote, a cupola that gathers quantity,
neighbor-ling, a spike of hackles,
a repeating quotient (captive foreshadows),
honing forward our lank,
egregious, amnesiac orality.