Homage to James Tate

 

 

Master: I plucked my eyelashes, nervous, blind,

told my mother, “It’s what I do” (how else

to explain Stukas straight to the eyes—

she wouldn’t know a Stuka, I’d have to explain,

then it would be back to the shrink

who’d ask me again to draw pictures,

who in turn wouldn’t understand

drawing when blind is poetry itself.

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