Narcissus
Lay by the pool. He fell
Instantly in love with what he saw
He saw it was
Himself he looked upon.
He saw at once that it was very good.
A writer, too,
Stares incessantly
Into the pool of his own words
The writer
May well be accused
Of that sad boy’s unfortunate obsession
In truth though
He is watching eels and slimy things
Swimming among the water weeds below
Narcissus frowned
At ripples on the pond
Disturbing the beauty of his universe
The writer frowns
For the mysterious dark writhing eels
In the deep essence of the pool are
What is truly frightening
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