A FOOL WHO SEES

There is something horrible about the morning:

The case of sight:

Where everyone shows their plague spots, readily.

Men wear their unblemished white shoes, proudly,

and beautiful maidens who spit freely.

 

Unabashed praise for the Lord,

were he to grant me immediate blindness.

Dead eyes for details.

Admiring only the stone,

the statue of your face.

All texture, tactile

 

If something notable resides,

it crouches like a gargoyle

amidst the words, misshapen, accidental. (only there)

Actions �" quickly vaporized

Inaccurately recounted

Fogged over, forgotten

 

No longer sacrificing at the image:

This isn’t about Paradise,

just gouging out each other’s eyes, with love.