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)