Close the lids of your words and listen.
The dirt, soft and loamy, is where
the rising world makes its home.
I may be mostly blind, but who isn’t?
Still, I can see the sounds of birds
only the power lines adore. I can inhale
a swath of light swimming in sun
the so-called seeing eye can’t imagine.
Light hums like the smooth sides
of a large cave, marrying the particulars
we usually divide: irritated cat
instead of unmade bed, doorknob
instead of golden globe mirroring the sky.
Why do I keep saying, “mostly blind,”
as if someone, surely not me, chuffed
all the shutters down at once to fixate
on where the wall meets the floor
with a pipsqueak of a crack?
Nothing taken or lost ever leaves us completely.
Bodies were made to compensate, to sing
in their rusty voices of what’s coming
into view, especially in the dark.
All God’s children love the sky.