Blindness said to Darkness: without gravity, it is coincidence
we've met here. And of sight, forgive me if I say: not all birds
can sing, some can't even fly. Do you suppose they know
what they are missing?
When we close our eyes, we know what color
blood is, how warm the sun, how deep the night,
how unfathomable the sky. By chance, we touch
the wings of morning as it's rising only
to mistake its thousand voices as a prayer.
As gift, the light bestows shadow to the body
so it might shade the sweetness of its sorrow
from the world, repair the scars that burn
its hidden soul. Is it circumstance
that brings us hope?
And of the dead, their clay-brown eyes
and melting hearts, each one dreamt
they might be you or you them without
pause or concern or regret. Not all dreams
are dreams; how can we trust them?
In every unknowable knowing-ness,
what passes ends, what grieves forgets,
what watches helpless learns to lift,
what fails reverts to finishing a thought,
a word, a question, perhaps, a poem.