He is a tender man with some experience of the shortest days. He is a man who has a long life line in his palms. He is one who worries: thinks of the exiles, the political poor, animals, music, hysteria. Some poetry he likes, some he considers rubbish. Sometimes he sets the night on edge with his lamp. He loves the early dusk. Loves people who take up cooking because of anxiety. Loves to outwhistle the teakettle. Stares at the mapped shadows on the snow. And he isn’t much for larger plots–the revenant or prodigal; old money falling out of the wall; hen scratches in bibles; nostalgic symphonies–not these. But bring the tree indoors. Play some Mingus. My pretty little lullaby. You can’t beat it. Else winter will break all our hearts.
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 