I can’t read what’s right in my face
And I can’t face intensely close faces.
It hurts my orientation, my spatiality,
Or maybe it’s intimacy I can’t face,
But I’ve the knack for planning ahead
Far into the future or two moves up.
My sight extends far into the un-here.
Though now, in the waning years, or
Maybe waxing, that is, expanding, my
Sight is delimited, far-sighted and
Near too, somewhere between; really
Not the middle, mean, or average, how
Ever you measure space-time continu-
Um, more like focal clarity of one layer
While the rest blurs snowy opaque and
Blue in relief like sky, sadness or pearls.
I’ve trimmed off layers to the one visible,
My reality carved from seeds and history.
How the rain obscures sight I don’t know,
But I can see clearly how blindness grows.