To let a blind man in your shop
Whereas he’ll enter
Wherefore he’ll touch things
Whereby deep in the merchandise
Olfactory stuff will occur
(Somatosensory tickles
From a feathered hat
Will become a raincloud inside out)
There’ll be a scent of roses
Though no one is dead
Though Braille of the 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
Feel the spine’s dorsal pressure
I don’t care what you sell
Planet of the Blind 