a patient today had the palest azaleas
in a caper jar, i told him.
they looked like babies...
so soft and light pink and smooth.
And then, I asked if he was ready for a laugh:
I received my first bee sting and my first kiss years apart but by the same azaleas...
His response could not have been better:
That is not a laugh.
That is perfect harmony.
One hurt, and later made you proud.
The other made you proud and later hurt.
I think it's more than poetic, Angel.
It just seems apropos.
He sees poetry in everything around him and I see extremes...
I see beauty that hurts and try to find the flaws to make things real and in the ugliness that seems without redemption,
I find stories of what was that make so much more than is there.
There are some things that you write, I told him, that I read and it's like a sense is awakened for the first time...
like after years of adapting to the lack of sight, it's there
e x a c t l y   a n d n o t h i n g l i k e i m a g i n e d.
I think that these must be the things that you think the least about...
the things that are just clacks of a keyboard and a racing heart.
(and all he said was)
then promised to sing to me of honeysuckle on another evening.
i've got nothing but time