poor try
i am tapping around the room with a white stick.
all the windows have fallen out and are bricked up.
every aspect of poetry fell out and cannot return.
if i am to write anything now, where is my pen?
what can shed light on the enigma of sightlessness?
what pulse can come where no heart is?
newness alone must not be called poetry;
if anyone at all calls!
it might be orphaned at birth and misplaced.
their minds might be event horizons,
might deny the parallel word of verse,
might insist that the mirror reflects what isn’t there.
that a poem’s virgin birth upon the detonation of the old
will be an alien civilisation with a sixth sense called nonsense.
the bricked windows will be doubly dumb.
the voice in the wilderness will be just that;
a wildness beyond understanding.
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