The corporeal way you enter my office,
banging the door frame with your hard, white cane,
more confident than the walls or the floor,
or the chair I stupidly wave you to,
until I remember: pull it your way.
Guide your hand to the arm
and let you sit how you’ve learned.
You tell me why you came,
but I think it was more to remind me
we don’t always need ordinary sight
to breathe white shower steam,
to smell wet leaves,
to taste beautiful lasagna,
to feel, even, a dark, fresh bed.
There are such things as other senses.
There lives the inner eye.
There thrives the third eye, too.
And so I wonder if I could be like you,
banging open doors of the world,
screaming from anima mundi:
“There are other ways you can see!”
I wonder if I could be like you,
more visible than the sun,
more lively than the rain,
more than just the same.
original version 1997