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  • Gary Hunter

Blind Poet - Feb. 3, 2024

take the poem I’m penning

in front of this fire

I could write


flames like cellophane ghosts

crackle and wave orange arms

in a fevered dance


I wonder if a blind poet might say . . .


the sun breaks through clouds

to the applause of leaves


the heat of mother’s breath

from kisses on a cheek


a face flush with love

speaks in gibberish


. . .  all from the memory lakes

of their other four senses


which I’m guessing

are probably each larger

than my one ocean

of sight


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