Thinking of James Wright

I know, I know, there are those who call
Two horses in particular–
One is young and one is old
Though they think they’re brothers—
So that I, a blind man
Hear them like books read aloud.
No sentiment; no romance;
Each has his voice
Each wants a touch.
I run my fingers gently
Down their long foreheads
Lightly across their noses.
What are we waiting for?
What are we going to do about it
In the meantime?

Author: skuusisto

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

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