Bride of Nobody

Oh no: Nobody’s outmoded way

of seeing, hope against the beholden

gaze to which he has been

enslaved. The sockets pop. Gouge

them out by the stalks, short sight’s

now shriveling on the vine.

Serves him right for facing

the launch of a thousand blackballs.

Luckily Nobody can skulk past

under stolen sheep skins. Wrong,

wrong to think him rigid as he bleats

his innocence, as he blunder

another return to surf. Asked his
maker for a simple companion, a face
that lathed a thousand keels. Not for him
the rent weaving--drastic fractal

still alive with sparks. Olympia just
wanted to pass, sight unseen by some
body's eyes. Nobody knows how
this works, but can't turn it off.

Wooden joints jigging on a plank
on a wooden knee on a wooden ship;
oh wooden I, no light in those eyes,
no soul to keep--in line, in doors.

A keeper, a finder, a candlestick,
a butcher. Dryad wounded knee,
a step in the right direction
off the page.