Like Monet

​I am thinking of
blindness lately
in all its forms--
the deprivation
of color (more dear to
me than time or pain)
and of how the
helplessly dead lie
blind staring off
into limitless soil.
there is a lot
to be said for the
eyes, the alpha
sense: let there be
light, the wires that
run from them to
the heart, a sunset
the face of one loved
or the familiar rectangle
of home after wandering
abused and lost
(a tale of how we
suffered other forms
of blindness too)--
but let me be clear:
it would kill me to
lose the light, I would
rather set myself
on fire. I am fine
with loss of clarity
suspecting I never
had any, and what
I took for it were
knives, precipices--
prepared to let go that
attachment the way
Monet did, late in
life, color, form
smudged edgeless
as scents, the way
things truly exist
before we pull
them apart, before
we imagine we
are apart.