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.