Light from the page; this bleached wood
Reflects; the cornea bends the wisdom, the
Iris breathes each syllable and the retina
Sees all. Each phrase runs down the optic nerve
Like a scalded cat in a greased alley. Each
Phrase nests in the most subversive cell of all;
A banged-up neuronal room, closed, locked
And strange. What you started to read a few
Seconds ago has fallen apart and then been
Joined again. Light over the horizon;
A reaching out, a new moment, a healing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem