1.
When he's born, he is spotted
with rosettes
like a leper or feral cat
and then gradually,
over the course of several days
one by one
the rosettes open, blink, and take light.
Panoptes.
2.
As a boy, he's mocked by
the other children not only for
his size, but the contagion
of eyes that afflicts him.
During games of All-Hide,
he must cover himself with
a throw or be deemed a cheat
and beaten.
Alone, given sheep to tend,
he learns to communicate
secretly with the gods
by winking in code,
each orb a bright private
world in eclipse.
He never sleeps entirely,
but in ocular shifts,
shutting down an arm or leg,
dreaming in bittersweet fragments.
3.
When he comes of age, no
woman will bed him—
for what woman wishes to have
all of her secrets rendered
or not have private moments,
however brief?
A she-thing in a cave—
the bearer and mate of monsters,
claim the tale-tellers—briefly
assents to congress
once he plies her with wine,
but recoils in disgust when she sees
the extra eye on his pedicle.
As he strangles her, it weeps dryly.
4.
The queen of heaven gives him
a heifer to guard. Later (wink, wink),
when a stranger drops by,
he's so intrigued by the man's
winged feet, he's unable to look away
en masse and thus misses
the quicksilver flash of the sword
as it descends.
Just as well: Argus has spent
so many years in the sun,
a growing occultation—a film
of milk—clouds his eyes
and while a respite from the burden
of never-ending vigilance
is not unwelcome, at heart
he remains a voyeur. At least now
he'll never experience his greatest
fear: missing by an inopportune
turn of vision or centennial blink,
a single special moment—no matter
how dull or routine it might
eventually resolve.