i'll never be a poet

blind

a pot of milk, each eye
once held two pools of jet ink
glassy and pure
the twinkling world held in certain gaze.

lines are blurred now, no
reservoir to keep yin and yang
from the kiss catastrophe
yet that day is here
slowly crept up on these
old searching bowls of lost light-
it spied the flashing beacon of the clear night
rubbed its disastrous hands together,
cried, "AH! this one is too omniscient,"
and it reached out two needle fingers
nails leaking poison
and pricked the very centre of each steadfast pupil
now shifted in its position, turned over
to face the night

now ripples stir the edges of the ink blots
melt into the white like watercolour,
bleed across the sky of pink cream
strong assured black
clouds over into blue-grey mist
shivering and cold and
lost
rippling the fissured surface of
mouldy curdled cherry yoghurt
the circle is broken,
spilled across in a wobbly splatter, a
splotch of wet cement dilute
suspended in dying yolk.