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The night’s a thick black bandage
sopping up the ooze of sundown.
With the pendulous tip
of his white cane, he probes
the palpable darkness of his room.
Books line his shelves like spectators
in a gallery, rapt in the bloodlust
of Brailled wordplay. He wields his sharp-
edged sword of what seems, at war
with his lions within.
For his night visitors,
he keeps an unlit lamp
hugging the edge of a table,
its cord draping from its base,
running along the baseboard
like a thick copper nerve of God.
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