Los

I witness his clear roving eye,

Which squashes all debate

About the ghosts and spirits

Haunting his mind.

For his eye might be roving

Yet it is focused, placid,

Two glowing mirrors

Reflecting a divinity only he could see.

Stern is this artist’s eye

Searching for pens,

brushes, acid and copper.

Beauty is silky skin

Stretched over taut limbs;

Beauty is uncovered with his acid

Dappled upon copper engravings;

Beauty rises to the surface

When pressed by the cylinder

And ink shines through

Like a ghost or spirit half remembered.

Stuck in the whirlwind of love, souls

Stuck in the vortex of raging tempests,

Like your eye that never settles

But searches for a clear steppe

To land and dream of beauty.

You saw God, a flea, and ancient architects,

And you wept when your clear roving eye

Roved no more

Because you found the source of creation

In the workshop of Los.