Blind

Blinder than oak-trees in the wind
Endlessly weaving sighs into a poem
To sight,
He sits, the light of one pale purple lantern
Seeping into his dream-hollowed face,
Like floating, transparent words
Pale with unuttered meanings.
He mends a flute and sighs as though
Its shadow leaned heavily upon his heart
And told him things his dead eyes could not grasp.

by Maxwell Bodenheim

Other poems of BODENHEIM (112)

Comments (1)

Excellent piece, with imagery carefully honed to add to the mood. Don't know this guy.