Write a blind poem. (Basically) (on plane trying to catch up... That's the gist of it)
Not on a plane. Elsewhere. Not feeling very well today. Can't do much else so I'll try to catch up but, really, there is a better way to play this.
Blind
I feel sure
there is some dimension
to which I am blind, dumb or insensate
Because there is this yearning
That is not quite from the skin
or from the ears
or the tastebuds, waiting
It is near to me
within perhaps
slant
leaning,
leaning more throughout the day
following the movement of something
that isn't light
but is like it
Perhaps it is eternal time
whose sensation eludes this body
its mortal occupant
as getting color from the touch
of the flesh of the peach eludes
the blind girl
carrying such beauty in the lap
of her apron
as she could never
ever
imagine.
No comments:
Post a Comment