Blind

I can’t give you what I see

and painted or photographed
won’t show you the me of it, 
the way my eyes run leisurely

or craze over you at random. 
And – God! – I wish you could catch
the rarest glimpse of you in motion,
or still, breathing, filling the space
of my eyes; the outline of your fullness,

the trace of down on your neck:

You (furred by tears, sad as a child)

leaving me, blind.