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MIT
Poetry
Watching the One-Eyed Hawk
Erica Funkhouser
The half of the world he commands
includes me; for this reason he doesn't falter
as I approach his branch. Either I am conundrum
in the solid eye or nothing at all in the drafty socket.
He looks like Rod Stewart: the rockstar haircut
and the exquisite tailoring slept in night after night.
Looking at him looking at me, I see
the opulent planet tilting toward new light
and I see the whirlpool of obscurity
into which every skittering thing will be sucked.
Experience tells the redtail I am inedible.
Experience tells me that if I keep
to the wide realm of his rapt patience,
I will see a meadow vole surface and vanish.
As a juvenile, he used to come and go,
toying with the Everglades; now he winters over,
the monocular monarch of short dark bitter days
that undulate with changes.
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