Each day I attempt some beauty, the old fashioned thing, strange as an antimacassar fringe or a stray smile from a horse. Memory plays a role in this. That perfect fish skeleton stripped clean by our housecoat and my blind boy’s hands working across its ribs.
Oh and the sounds of radios from open windows while walking home from school. Old beauties are still chance things. They come without a plan. Kelp at the ocean. My grandfather’s fountain pen with its dark design.
It’s snowing and I play Mahler on the hifi. I should be worth something by now. I should have helped you.
Planet of the Blind 