The Blind Leading the Blind
A Story, Love.
‘Could she be right?’
the blind man thinks
groping blindly in the night
‘Have I been sleepwalking
these three years past?’
and
‘Was I killed back there somewhere
then left to wander battlefields?’
and
‘Did I leave my heart on a suburban sidewalk
then forget to pick it back up?’
She sighs, his all-seeing eyes,
his hopeless muse, thinking
‘Has he ever really been present?’
letting her skirt hit the floor
stepping out of her tights
‘What happened in the murky past
to leave husk and ashes?’
and
‘Why doesn’t he realise
that a half life is no life
radiating broken somethings?’
and
‘Halfway round the world
he’s lost in the streets of his childhood.’
‘Could she be right?’
the blind man thinks,
his hands reaching for something
anything, really, to believe in-
‘No, there she is, on the left’
and
‘Take those off, we won’t need them’
and
‘Get on top.’
groping
blindly in the night
seeing what he wants to see
the blind leading the blind.
Michael Burrows 
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