Sitting in the railway station got a ticket for my destination, woo hoo, and the late December light falls over my hair from a high window though I can’t see it being visually impaired, woo hoo, but there’s heat on my dome, woo hoo, and because I read mucho poetry in my youth, I’ve got lines by Lorca: “A remembrance is moving down the long memory disturbing the delicate leaves with its dry feet…” Oh my bird, my dead singer, pal of my childhood, how good it is to have you back. And I am holding still without turning my head.
Planet of the Blind 