The birds in my neighborhood, who are beauty in-molded, rise and circle. Their brains are blanked, their brains are dark as minerals. I give thanks and praises there are no Bibles for vireos and phoebes. I’m blind but see light at the tips of wings—gold finches, orioles, bay-breasted warblers.
Some say beauty will outlast ideas of good and evil.
If I am here entire I must push my face into the feathers of the mind. Let others read Revelation.
If I come back I’ll be nothing more than spindrift to the tips of wings.
Planet of the Blind 