Ewe Eye
Cassandra Howard

The eyes of a ewe
are on fire with the white
moon shining from cerulean
night. Each ocular
sphere writhes, spies,
dines on yellow pie
that tells the time, swallows
the infinite with a blink,
a briny geyser under the lid
soothes the lunar sty
hiding twice in the sheep’s
two eyes, and until the wooly
moon-miser rises
to dewy soot-morning,
light mines her finite sight.