Mornings I Roll a Wheel…

Of arrows I prefer the invisible

I’ve a dozen in my torso

Ten or more in my face—

Blind children carry them far

Into adulthood, urchin spines

Broken, no markings

Mornings I roll a wheel

Also unseeable

East to West

North to South

In the privacy

Of my room

It throws off sparks

All the arrows lit then

Like candles

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto