You Come Too
I’m working my magic outside this downtrodden hotel
Signaling to the good strangers of Tallinn
Who’ll know me by my upright faith
And my blind man’s stick—snow now
In everyone’s hair; songs on lips;
Tattered Christ in the telephone wires;
Stepping out as they say
Inviolable, tight, alive
In the cold, and though I can’t see it
Lights come on
In the fairy tale shops
And independent of religion
Or science, who do I think
Can follow along?
Planet of the Blind 