Who Knows

Perhaps nothing
It is hard to see through those blinds
The way the hands are always trying to see
Through the fingertips

Maybe it opens on an alley
Another narrowness of experience

But maybe it opens like the snow around a streetlight
When you are looking up at night
The immense chrysanthemum of snow
And there is the sting of it in your eyes
Which open wider nonetheless
As if to punish you

With joy

 

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