They water blossom-tresses; pare them back
on branch of bone. Big amorous boys' eyes
come bumble-droning, pollen-bags on thighs.
But every strand, each rooted follicle
is an antenna. Stung, they turn and glare,
of scrutiny behind their necks aware.
Men lack this swivel-circumflex of sight.
Staunch Agamemnon, staring straight ahead
as Clytemnestra crept, would soon lie dead.