To let the blind in your shop
Whereas they’ll enter
Wherefore they’ll touch things
Whereby deep in merchandise
Olfactory stuff will occur
(Somatosensory tickles
From a feathered hat
Will be a raincloud inside out)
There’ll be a scent of roses
Though no one is dead
Though the Braille of ordinary
Dangles from hooks
Though your mother
Is long in her grave
She won’t be part of the sale
For my people are not occult
We feel love in our sleeves
Hear the spine’s dorsal horn
I don’t care what you sell
