Outskirts, October
I would tell you with this poem
Which is a color
A melodramatic color
Like green leaves seen through tears
I’d tell you about the forest of blindness
With its twilit roots
But you must believe me
When I speak to you
Now and forever
You with your wide eyes
Which only signal danger
You who can’t imagine
Gliding sightlessly down a street
Are those people or birds
High up on the balconies
I’m passing between trees
I can be free
Not as you conceive it
But waving dry stalks
Hearing the air whistle
Planet of the Blind 