Blind I walk into the reddening glow. It is not the sunset or sunrise others see. Its my own retinas. The journey has no familiar speech. Still I go along thinking about the histories of sacrifice. Mostly I think of the hagiographies of common people.
**
Early this morning a neighbor says hello. I think: “I’m not a ghost, not yet.” The white bird of my soul is still here.
**
The sighted think, “he can scarcely see me, therefore he doesn’t exist.”
**
I pass through the branches, a visitant, one of those Roman ecstatics in February.
Planet of the Blind 