yet to be told the blindness is coming
on a crisp prescription pad
and measured monotone
in an everyday voice . . .
what shrieks out,
the vast emptiness suddenly opening up,
the museums emptied,
workplace Orchard bare
the upright invitation of zippers
the plain black dress
that held your perfect shape
even on the hanger
tens of thousands of bookmarks
now too many to unmark
the steady stream of words
now dwindling to a trickle
and questions with answers to be dreaded
refuse to blur
Who will help me with my Windsor knot?
Is there Braille for musicians?
Find the ripe plump strawberry
that has silently rolled to one side of the plate?
a missile sent to the other side of the planet
or mere Sonoran sunset sight gag.
Will pity wring all passion from love
now that I will have seen the last woman
glancing toward me
while adjusting a skirt over a hip?
Poetry's daily bread of observation
now emptied of novelty &
is sure to struggle
with lumpy abstraction
with the time
before porridge & the distant color
the crocus campaign against March
of green shaking off conquering white
Milton may have seen Blake
in a darkened chamber
but it took a furious squint;
even then light continued to slice
through the broken glass of a perfect lens
June 2011