WEBVTT

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Now this Lionel Kearns
that I introduced you to

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at the beginning wrote
a poem about blindness.

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He has the same
phobia that I have,

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that we're not going to be able
to see like Milton someday.

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But I don't have any daughters.

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He has one.

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"Through my eyes, eager
and wary for the energy.

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Through my eyes,
lit every moment

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lighting my way to the world.

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Around me I feel the
batteries running down.

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But to be blind--

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making out the round edge of the
bright hung moon, moon, moon.

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Now there is the yellow haze.

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I squeezed my
eyelids to press it

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out not wanting my light of
blue sky to drop into the ocean

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night.

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We burn candles,
electric lights at night.

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Blind as a bat, he felt
the boat bumping under him,

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dropped his sailor into
the hole of darkness.

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Shapes meld and swell,
surge into moving outlines.

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Out, unholy Milton,
said his villain

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in the white haze
of God's left hand,

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pulled the floor out
dropped him into darkness.

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Also, I must touch you, love
you, are in focus in my reach.

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And my hands, to know
the touch of things,

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have no sight to them but the
suggestion as amoebas swimming

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on the glass.

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Ray Charles in dark glasses all
last summer in San Francisco.

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The sun shone upon a returning
sea under rolling clouds.

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Even now, squinting under this
reading lamp on white paper,

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I stared all this energy there,
eager and weary for the light,

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light, light in this white haze.

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