CYCLOPS

The busy eye, by God intended

as a third for every mother,

a help for safekguarding children,

by chance mislaid, alone

upon a wombless monster’s brow,

whose measured gaze falls short

of targeted heavens

and the wavering horizon’s

unmerciful confinement.

Accident confounds design.

The artist has a vision,

then a child.  No end of love

will finish both aright, no reach

of heart engage detachment.