On Not Healing the Blind

By Ae Hee Lee

She steps onto your hill
heaped with glasses —
all made far from here.

You brought them for her.

But her pupils are windows
 fogged up by the impossible mouth of winter
in this land of moths that eat sun drops
scattered on sand.

Because you can’t do anything,
You let your head fall on her neck,
water her shoulders—
soil spotted with seed.

She will prophesy the place
where the universe hides its colorless eyes
but by then

star-red geraniums
will have canopied your ears.

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