I live in the eye socket of Cyclops. I live
in its basin as an itch where once the green gaze
of the lake beheld planets. From its rim sipped
mammoth, pronghorn, and ground sloth.
It’s said, when the hem tore, tears flowed north
for weeks, that the depths bounced back. Now hulled,
concentric rings of shoreline dream such sights
and funnel citizens to the center.
Turn the horizon, and mountains map the ever-open lids,
our city the glimmer on eastern slopes. Here, we must
harvest winter snows in some small mimicry of glacial
feeding since nobody drinks from brackish pools.
Imagine: in every place I’ve lived droughts worsen.
When will sleep come, the eye close? I cup my hands.