Reading Shelley While Going Blind

“Look at my throat” said the midday sun
And chickadees, titmice, cardinals
I asked them: “where will I be buried?”

It was April, suddenly warm—
Sad child, me, looking for something else
The milk and gin of Percy
“I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar…”
Here I remember that boy
His guitar…

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto