Samsara

The ways a poem is born are inscrutable. I ordered my coffee, sat at a table waiting to be served, opened my book (Moby-Dick), and tried to start reading.

But then I heard a voice in my head. At first it was a whisper, then it grew louder. I had to listen.

With my left eye
I caress the colours of things,
trace the edges of their shapes,
bleed on their tips,
ingest the surrogate of their existence

With my right eye 
I measure their distance from my embrace,
compute the time to their captivity,
anticipate their surrender,
distill them to memory. 

In both eyes I harbour 
the intricate blindness 
of vision.