Simon makes it all come together, perfectly,
placing antiques 'n curio's on dusted black shelves,
window-sil ledges with geometric widgets,
navigating his world, by touch, and by texture.
Simon day-dreams about women and stem cells,
despite Canon Law, and his strict Catholic rearing.
And, he likes to muse on the concept of light,
spectrums, and prisms, though opague to Simon,
still he dusts pleated lamp-shades that house no bulbs;
says he might buy some hi-powered torchere lamps;
lie back in his chaise, absorb the dark warmth
of clear hallogen,
and imagine the sparkle of sunshine on sea-glass.
And, no one could possibly comprehend,
Simons' world of black imaged movement,
or how it feels to be gifted at birthe,
as an inspiration with Crosses to shoulder.
And of course, there's the expectations from those,
who know not what it's like to live in visual occlusion,
or they who watched Gibson's '''Miracle Worker''',
thinking Bancroft and Duke got it right!
Still, Simon opens his eyes every morning,
in nebulous, oblique, movement,
to all that breathes, or rustles before him,
with all four other senses, working overtime,
His Cross's lone compensation!
And Simon wants to see an oceanfront sunset,
the kind that gloustermen place before women;
say's that's all he really wants,
and his life will all come together, perfectly.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem