Blinder than oak-trees in the wind
by Maxwell Bodenheim
Endlessly weaving sighs into a poem
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.