Helen as a beam of moonlight caught sideways
Helen refracted onto thresholds her reflection a holy cult
of high-born women ululating in bedrooms
gripping the mirror hard that bears her standard Helen
‘With beauty like a tightened bow’
The window clapping shut like an iron gate.
She does the latch. Empty, diffuse glow.
Now focus on her lithe and loathed silhouette
see if it makes plain
how a woman could be mistaken
by so many men for a ghost bartered dead by nudest song
even in this unacknowledged light
at this impossible angle
From Eidolon (Shearsman, 2015) (sections 1, 2, 4, 5, 19, 25, 30, 32, 37, 46, 50)