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.