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To those who can see them, there are eyes: Leopard eyes of marigolds crouching above red earth, Bulging eyes of fruits and rubies in the heavily-hanging trees, Broken eyes of queasy cupids staring from the gloom of myrtles. I came here for solitude And I am plucked at by a host of eyes.

A peacock spreads his tail on the balustrade And every eye is a mood of green malice, A challenge and a fear. A hornet flashes above geraniums, Spying upon me in a trick of cunning. And Hermes, Hermes the implacable, Points at me with a fractured arm.

Vengeful god of smooth, imperishable loveliness, You are more savage than the goat-legged Pan, Than the crocodile of carven yew-wood. Fisherman of men's eyes, You catch them on a three-pronged spear: Your youth, your manhood, The reticence of your everlasting revelation. I too am become a cunning eye Seeking you past your time-gnawed surface, Seeking you back to hyacinths upon a dropping hill, Where legend drowses in a glaze of sea.

Yours are the eyes of a bull and a panther, For all that they are chiseled out and the sockets empty. You—perfectly imperfect,