Blind Man
I do not know what face returns my stare
as I lean toward the face inside the mirror,
nor do I know the old man lurking there,
reflected back in silent, weary anger.
Slowly, in my darkness, with my hand,
I trace my unseen wrinkles. Then a flash
of light breaks through; I almost glimpse a strand
of hair, tinged with gold yet dull as ash.
I tell myself again that I have lost
no more than merely superficial shows,
the same brave consolation Milton glossed;
but then I think of letters, or a rose.
I think if I could only see my face,
I'd know myself on this rare day of grace.
Prose crib
I do not know which is the face that looks at me
when I look in the face of the mirror;
I don't know what old person lurks in its reflection
with silence and already tired anger.
Slowly in my shadow, with my hand I explore
my invisible wrinkles. A flash
reaches me. I have discerned your hair
that is made of ash or even gold.
I repeat that I have lost only
the vain surface of things.
This consolation is from Milton and is brave,
but I think about letters and roses.
I think that if I could see my face
I would know who I am on this rare afternoon.
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