I just go on writing poems. Shadows in the weeds. Everything fragrant. Late summer. In general my life has been composed of mistake after mistake. When I’m feeling kind toward myself I say this is “being human”–but every minute has a different name for sorrow. “What about joy?” you ask. Joy has ten fingers and once face. Peek-a-boo. A few thoughts in the morning garden. Miracle trees and clouds. I laugh like hell at a sparrow who looks like James Cagney. I’m blind. How do I know? I know.
Planet of the Blind 