Tuesday, September 8, 2009


Without my glasses,
I cannot see
the naked way he looks.
The way his mouth moves when he speaks.
The scar on his right shoulder
he does
not look at because his brother
died in that accident-
an upside down tree,
with roots in the sky,
branches spreading along his arm.

Without my glasses,
the world is
mumbled secrets, 
forcing me to reach my hands out.

Forcing me to touch the curves
and corners of created things.
To mistake his hands for mine,
to find sad things beautiful,
touching these scars that still bleed,
as I feel my way