OK.
Two more poems I'd like to read.
This one is called "An Attempt to Understand the Blind Man."
It's in three sections.
As always he was right.
The blind man, whose face brings to our
eyes their own dull reflections.
Behind dark glasses, or at evening along the street,
he sifted out of the walls saying, "Here I am.
Look me right in the eyes."
But I was always elsewhere, evading the dark procession.
I hoped for the new life.
I loitered among the stalled traffic of thieves.
Time, though forever stopped at the corner, at the light,
was nevertheless in sight.
Today the man with a white cane, followed
the man who was not yet me.
I asked if I could come along too, wondering
if this could be the beginning, the way death
should start, a determined entrance into a room.
In the bedroom, whose face lay like the sweetest lilac
in the pillow, the surroundings were finally familiar,
the shades pulled, the mirror is dark.
We held hands, like lovers.
The soft sheets cried real tears, the springs whispering,
"Here, here, close your eyes."
Received us like brothers lost, and someone else's
autobiography.
We do the next thing.