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Poem

A pair of forceps the size of food tongs
turned off one light in my two room watch tower.
In those days Grizzly bears were called eye surgeons.
I did not see half the world slip away
over my left shoulder.

A cyclopean tunnel forgot it was ever
able to swivel eyeballs and see around
the edges of a circle.

It’s all fish-eyes under an arched bridge now.
As long as a telescope is applied to the correct frontal lobe
my bullet-shaped sight can punch holes through perception
just as well as any less precise cannonball.

Both Bach and Handel went blind under the helping hands
of one surgeon who’s name history has long forgot.
Even though their eyes were dimming
their music shone all the brighter.
Poetry is its own on-man-band,
it makes its own music even in the darkest cave.

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