Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg

THE MOSTLY BLIND EYE TALKS BACK

Nothing is blind about me, who inhales
light for breakfast. I float in the sun
across time that the so-called seeing eye
can’t imagine, light a language so prehistoric
you can’t even find it in the Book of Antiquities.

Did you think anyone’s story was written
in crisp distinctions? The world surges in fire
and fog, and I take it all in, no divisions
between window frames, carpenter bees,
crying child, unmade bed where a cat sleeps.

What I see speaks a language of birds
only the power lines adore. No separation
and never any stillness, a motion
the exhaling thunder answers.

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