When blindness does not take hold,
as in the past
and assuredly at an approaching
your voice is a wish to be my anchor—
dark blue and warming.
When your will for water rises onto
cheering through the gray lines of eye-
white evaporate, in
a tiny mirage
of golds suffused,
as a personal
study for salvation-grace;
when shooting dances surround
orange mind, traces crisp,
You await by twin endtips cornering
my silent smile.