The artists investigating the book collection in The Woolhope Room

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Blind Huber

Poems by Nick Flynn

Blind Huber (i)

Opaque glow where my eyes should be,
what remaining light, eyelids
thin against it. Soothing,
as if all I pass were encrusted in wax,
dipped upright-wax bush & wax
bench, wax man, wax tea, waxy cup to waxy
lips, my eyes now more like their eyes,
morning filtered beyond translucence
as the acolytes cover their queen.
By the sound they will soon
swarm, clockwork, the frenzied heat of wings
forms droplets on the walls of
their city, their city softening, now twisting
just out of shape.

 

Blind Huber (ii)

I sit in a body & think of a body, I picture
Burnens’ hands, my words
make them move. I say, plunge them into the hive,
& his hands go in. If I said,
put your head inside,
he would wear it. Think of my body, every day
the same chair, angled
thus, Burnens
every day, think of his body, think of
a hive, each bee, each thought, the hive
brims with thought. Move it into shade, I think
& the body moves to shade. Whose
fingers, which word, each surges
from inside my head, but always returns
as Burnens.

 

Blind Huber (v)

Before shadows I saw the rose,
saw its thorn,
a bee navigating, never impaled.
I no longer know what is outside my mind
& what is in.