Dead Eyes
Continentally set
with a plummer's finesse
on either side of your perfumed face
wide, like the bust of Clytie
smashed in two
and divided between grieving brothers
who married very fragile wives
one a sprinter
the other a marathon mule
that divorced for similar reasons
lack of death
lack of life
each taking their rightful half of the bust
to opposite ends of the earth
leaving Clytie cross-eyed
every sunset and sunrise.
It's exactly how your gaze strikes me
while I'm in the garage
under the hood of something long broken
trying to further dismantle love.
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