Article: Calypso, Twilight.(Poem)

   The blind stallion, having learned 
   my braille of leg and hand, 
   carries me without flinching 
   at the wind. His back has softened, 
   an extinct volcano, and my hips 
   hold me there, settled 
   by something I no longer 
   try to name. I am past the years 
 
   for bearing. My skin 
   turns to the work of wind 
   and salt, as the sun shortens 
   its arc above my diminished gardens. 
   I have little use for the silver-wreathed 
   mirror brought by a lover 
   who kept finding his way back. 
 
   If a wanderer should drift 
   ashore now and then, spent 
   and nameless, he will still find 
   in my eyes a trace of green. 
   Or blue. Depths in which to rest. 
   ...

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