Introduction
–for Marvin Bell
Poetry happens off the page
until it sustains something
like an injury, a twisted neck
arriving at the blank-clinic
conceding a belief
in predestination—here
on a minuscule ball
everyone is a poet
for love begins
taking us somewhere
though at the doctor’s
we have so many wounds
one wonders how we travelled far.
I fill my sack with apples
imagining the hours ahead
disengaging myself
from the corpses of me—
Whitman’s phrase—
then walk uphill
without expectations at all.
Planet of the Blind 