If only I were not blind
ha!
Now to stay awake
roof top
the garden of my sister
an unusually violet rose
in that corner
where rays kissed
and cigarettes
bare chested
and December night
all for poems.

Three stars I counted,
then stared a recount.

If you could believe this,
you would.
They say- poets should hide
that when they say this
they must mean that.

This is a poem,
well supposed to be one.
The title- as can you read- is
“I am not blind”
and the first line…