It's half-past two,
sunny as a shiny penny
rubbing pockets of the world.
A blind man wanders
with his stick through
carnivals of urban's teeth,
paper-clipping sound and sense.
Struggle in fortissimo;
every meal a rich dessert
in menus of this tragedy.
His guide will tell him
when to cross, lead him
down our sewer pipes
with pupiled pity for their scent.
Gargoyle nesting in the city,
plowing through attentive straw.
He feels the ground our luckiness
can touch and leave
without a set of firmer plans.
Focus in his fingertips like peeled
and fragrant ginger root.
His destiny reminding him
of all the sharper particles,
groping tentacles of sea,
where concentration cannot rest.
Where tactile isn't
summer hammocks
blowing in a sugared wind,
but cassocks nearer to a grave.
Where moments
don't decide themselves.
Where hearing is a hunting dog.
A victim of the buffeting:
a little closer to the conch
than normal's ease will ever be.