Light is light, whether sun—or dim fire.
Love is love, whether God—or smoldering desire.
I cannot compare your eyes to the day:
Tomorrow is forgetfulness and clay.
Your eyes have the light
Of the sun hiding in the light of the night.
I die by my own comparison.
You are outside my library-garrison.
You smile at my slip-shod poetry and sin.
You are the air. I’m trapped by books within.
What are these prophecies the blind poet believes?
History said: she was here. My dream says: she leaves.