Forbidden by my doctors to abuse my eyes
By writing, suddenly worlds reduced in size
(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):

Worlds without the sun still write,
Staring blindly at the missing light.