I forced myself one day to remove those gilded gloves I had donned for so long and

feel the perspiration gathering on my neck.
I revealed fingers, exquisitely imperfect fingers that clambered ahead of me, serving

as my sight when my eyes were wounded blind.
I began to feel the ground for irregularities, taking note of upturned pebbles and

scrapes on bark.
these hands in their searching have found dry leaves, birds’ eggs and stones,
have clutched at knives and blunted arrows,
burying in hideaways the necessities and discarding the superfluities.
they tell me that to know form  one does not need to know light.
to know depth one does not need the perception of sight.

I’ll hold my hands out in front forever now, fingers spread wide to greet the twilight,
and save these weeping eyes for another life.