On The Slopes Poem by Ananta Madhavan

My imperfections tease me. I am
arrived at that pitch of felicity,
where I can choose to say what
fragments of copious wordage are useless.
I work in a quarry rich with stones;
Some may be gems, grey slabs perhaps,
Some with dull daubs, some beautiful.

Surfaces delight me. Even the montage
of a flattened universe,
the bas-relief of remembered music;
the depth from eye-ball to brain-wall:
the third dimension we can try
to re-conjure that artifact
in a braille for sensitive souls to read,
sensitive, though blind.