Blind Man

Since the eclipse, the earth
speaks to him in braille
and his hands listen,
his life syncopated
by the beat of a cane
tapping out anger, jazz, lust,
the rhythm of his breathing

both particle and wave
falling and flowing
of his eyelids
is for him a sound,
a white melody
scored on the dark sheets

He has a penchant for roses,
is the only man I know
who hears them sing

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