One eye sees as keen
as Gary Winogrand,
the small dramas on the street
scrolling by the filmy window.
The bus stops a foot away
from a curbside plane tree.
Inscription knifed sharp
into the flaky bark:
-BOOTS hearts SF-
The other eye
now renders scenes
as if they were
Clyfford Still
color field paintings
viewed through vaseline
in a dim lit room.
I've not eaten
any of Ulysses' men,
he who called himself
-Nobody-
and blinded Polyphemus
with his burning trunk.
I've still got
the one good eye
to spy out any sea nymphs
who dance naked
in the ocean's spray
like the one I saw
forty seven years ago
a hundred miles
south of Ensenada.
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