Forbidden by my doctors to abuse my eyes

By writing, suddenly my world's reduced in size,

Whiting out such patterns as the mind computes:

Books, movies, email, Mozart (my sole pursuits),


As even when their lids are closed, my pupils 

Trace the motions of my hand, duples

Of  what happens in a well-lit, better

Land, pilots whose loop-the-looping letter


Above the Sunday sand traces lines

On the pages of the beach's blinds:


But, without the sun without my sight,

Staring straight ahead, I write.



July 4, 2004