Prose Poem for Harilyn Rousso
When I was a boy there was a small door at the end of our garden. I used to climb it. It didn’t matter I couldn’t see. On warm summer days, possessed of natural intuition, I’d reach the top and swing and World blemishes spun fast. Light was wide and waving my arms, innocent, the road was altogether new. 1959. Sundays. No able bodied children for miles!
Planet of the Blind 