Leofric’s snore plunders the dark.
She rises from the bed, white
nightdress twisted between her legs,
walks toward the image of the eye—
blue flame lingering in the night air.
She knows it’s just a dream,
the bareback ride she takes
every night, yet somewhere
in the valley a man struck blind
by the sight of her knows the future.
She remembers little, the heat
of her thick yellow braid in sunlight,
the horse’s hair scratching her thighs,
a blur of closed shutters.
The eye. And now, touching her
loosening skin, she does not
understand whatever this body
was meant to teach. Holding her
breasts’ soft weight in her palms,
she does not feel wise.
What is the secret of the eye?
What did it see through the hole
in the sill as she rode that white horse
through Coventry? Peeping Tom,
called Prophet, what visions
gallop through his nights?