blind stuff

By Ben C

I once was a writer
for fifty years I discovered books
and haven’t touched a mile
since then
but now there are metal Gates and brothers
who would rather not read what
I once’d to think

.just wondering, but
why we look like our fathers
and talk, laugh,
act like them, our fathers.
as surely as
there is Something to be said for ironing
and the widows who enjoy it

if you’d like to: this winter weekend
we could slide down a slippery hill of memories
and melt the wax photographs
like weary humans
in a crying cage.
with single matches of course

although there is something to be said for erasers too
rubber ones
pink, sated with smudgy ’ole
charcoal, they, our best friends.
Believing what they need to believe.
For avoidance, & smooth talking.
two ends to a tool that will be the most powerful
rocket ever

i'm staring at the moony holes
still not writing a thing
but still wondering plenty (like if the moon is ever real, or always hung by string?)
I am most certainly
for everything, not come to anything
but my room and clothes
which have followed me since birth
and will cast off at death
I dearly miss them already

So as to dried up leaves
who are stirred from death into lively little tornados
at my weakest
I have done the strongest things
i’ll never do again

so, iron
so, craters
so, fathers
although gaping craters
have unknowing eyes
i’ve known blind women
who are the prettiest of all

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