A SONG IN PASSING
I’m the blind man who
waves to every passer-
by—the bird wing’s sigh,
the human footstep.
I have beautiful hands, or
so my lover says.
I’m told I’m naive,
trusting. We are all passing.
We make our own luck.
A SONG IN PASSING
I’m the blind man who
waves to every passer-
by—the bird wing’s sigh,
the human footstep.
I have beautiful hands, or
so my lover says.
I’m told I’m naive,
trusting. We are all passing.
We make our own luck.