Narciso (Fábula II)
the pale faces of the women who love you
shimmer on the surface of the river.
of course you have not yet noticed.
beyond the bed of rushes & cattails
their murky hearts lie.
they are beginning to rot,
to fill up with maggots,
round-bellied catfish pecking at
severed valves, at the purplish
the women of course can live on
like the ferns along the banks of the
river that can manage
on so little sun.
you feast on the way they
continue to want you,
your image repeating, this
cold screen of desire.