Don’t sing to me about going down to the Crossroads—
Blind as I am, walking with a dog,
I’m always at lethal intersections.
These are countries without names.
The Devil has nothing to do with them.
Henry Ford sits on his cloud and points.
**
Read T.S. Eliot in youth.
Now when I go back
I riffle an album full of leaves.
**
After much is said and done
I made too many mistakes.
Entered strange parlors,
Uttered jokes in poor taste
Among people I didn’t know.
Ate with the wrong utensils.
**
So he went a long way a long way:
Metaphorical luggage,
Regrets, coins, pocket comb,
Dharma in memory.
Broken thread dangling from his wrist.
**
Eliot:
“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.”
Oh but this isn’t so.
The language stretches out.
On the bright side:
Language is a jacket you’re not cold in.
**
So many times I’ve fallen asleep between two winds.
Even on this street corner.
Planet of the Blind 