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.
He will still find in my flesh
a firm yes, not padding
or pillow, but sinew like his--from
gathering wood for the long nights,
from sending men back to the sea
at first light (they swim strongest then),
from rising alone most mornings
to light that never lies
and the continuous waves.

But this poet who tries to slip
into my skin--she bathes me
in stage light, too bright
yet too soft, scribbling in
her journal. She would have me say,
This is the dance my mothers
and grandmothers might have learned
had they slipped away from
children and set themselves loose
beneath the moon.

I give her back her words, a wish
blown like a kiss as the bloom
leaves her face, and love
leaves a jagged wake behind her.
It would do her little good

to know that lately I slip
like the breeze between the island's
tall rocks. I travel without
green or blue lining my eyes,
without rare flowers
from my garden, and disappear
into rooms filled with smoke, jazz,
the braid and flow of tongues.

I walk through the teeming streets
without desire or dread, the way
the old stallion accepts
the bit and lets himself be guided
among the last of the wild iris,
the shrinking berries--and

sometimes my weakened eyes
feel immense, turning me
inside out, as a young man or woman
appears beside me
speaking slowly at first, as though
cracking the door to a vault
and is surprised at the words,
the rush of words,
the voice full of great birds lifting.