Only Bread, Only light

Each day now I climb the branches of my private tree
Not as a child might, more like a scholar
Whose life has failed in the city
Whose friends vanished
Over the lake of the underworld.
“I know you,” I say to the beetle,
“I read your declensions,” I tell her.
The top of her back,
What they call “the carapace” is clean Braille.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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