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
or
the heat of mother’s breath
from kisses on a cheek
or
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
Comments