Tiresias in his youth is an uneasy figure.
Blunt and showy, with one sun-dark eye,
mask pitched together for a sage part, he casts stones
where none can read them; he files sharp
the horns of mercy.
The Janitor summons us from a squat on the playground.
You should have heard our lot, speaking Greek.
He tenders a prophecy, and demonstrates with a clean cut.
What’s left rises to the air in a scatter of feathers.
Stare at him straight, you’re dead.