Stephen Kuusisto, Letters to Borges

I write poetry, a foolishness

Much like thinking

The heart

Has an Edenic flavor—

Continue my mistake

In these times.

I’m an old, mad, blind, despised,

And dying king alright.

Fine saying so.

When I was very small

My father bought me

A kite and you can imagine

That sightless child

Holding a string.


Author: skuusisto

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

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