Headlong
The blind man with his white cane
stops on a deserted street corner
next to the post office.
I try to imagine: a life of darkness,
a perpetual fumbling for the light
switch across a suddenly-expanded
wall. Is it like closing my eyes,
trying to find my way around
my house by echoes
and memories? I always run headlong
into a wall, three inches to the left
of my bedroom door.
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