My eyesight now—
and my conviction
that it's never too late
to be taught;
the light of October
as I trudge on, lost in thought—
all bound-up and shrouded
in swaths of cloudy gauze;
the sweetgum trees
at the end of the street—
weeping without discretion
their yellowed spears of leaves;
their faint shoulders passing
my bleak eyes in the rain,
slumped already with the dolor
of a thousand grim winters.
This world
is a mousetrap.
A wily seduction—
things seem weaker than they really are.
