One-eyed blind.
On the 28th he said, Yes, I prefer doubt to certainty. I am more interested in the traces
than the object. I love the fragments.
On the 29th she asked, Where do I place it, this story?
What country what continent city village or heartbeat?
How do I keep it simple like a breath?
She asked him, Do you like small? Skin on skin? Yes kneading her shoulder muscles,
Easing tissue from her supine sublime spinal chord
Erasing tension. Her smile said, Yes. Her relaxation exhaled.
She spoke with hand wings. Short, fast and deadly.
She dreamed of writing a poem perhaps flash fiction.
She selected a pen unscrewed the black ebony summit opened a black notebook.
She made a pot of green tea.
She began with flowing calligraphy letters.
My life began in a village. I don't need to leave my village. My village is the world.
She drew a picture. It looked like this temple. Women carved it. Caress the details.
Tourists find, travelers discover.
A dreamer with controlled imagination.
SLOW CHILDREN...lightning bolts - blue butterfly, white sky, green flowers, red leaves, songs of invisibility, piano shadow notes.
How do you spell loss?
What I call "memory" contained an entire world.
A blind painter creates from memory. A blind writer. A blind poet.
Words of yellow laughter.
A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.
Burma - Give Peace A Chance
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