BY A POET GOING BLIND, 61
The face, he saw as he shaved, was not anything
He had ever perceived, but an unknown species.
The bathroom light was as imperfect as society,
It flickered. It was frail, failed to illuminate.
He was shadowed and obscured by a structure
He never built. Its attitude, indifference.
He knew his life’s role was obedience to the cold.
It was the snow from the fire that left the scars.