Sir Blindness gropes through the House

of Bluebird, insisting ‘I am perfectly nice!’

Wanting an urn for the oak leaf’s smoke,

or a follower to polish mirrors,

Blindness is all smiles.


Spurned, he tweets like a child,

his threads unravel wilder, wilder:

‘The centre of my sinful earth, poor soul.’

To generate tenderness Blindness says

‘On the writing hand I have fluid,


only money is a poultice.’

Still poor, still poor, Blindness’s kindness

splinters into a million pieces,

a million butterflies

bristling with milkweed. The boy must be anesthetized—


poison in a glass of tea,

pasteurization with steam.

Blindness is the aphid of poetry,

shadiness the root of it.

They will not bloom, the Chinese roses.










note: ‘Blindness’ is a terminal from Sylvia Plath’s ‘Kindness’ and includes a line from Shakespeare

Share This