of Rainer Maria Rilke's "Going Blind"
She sat just like the others at the table.
But on second glance, she seemed to hold her cup
a little differently as she picked it up.
She smiled once. It was almost painful.
And when they finished and it was time to stand
and slowly, as chance selected them, they left
and moved through many rooms (they talked and laughed),
I saw her. She was moving far behind
the others, absorbed, like someone who will soon
have to sing before a large assembly;
upon her eyes, which were radiant with joy,
light played as on the surface of a pool.
She followed slowly, taking a long time,
as though there were some obstacle in the way;
and yet: as though, once it was overcome,
she would be beyond all walking, and would fly.
My Improv':
He sat alone, his head bent into Dostoevsky.
There was no emotion. I wandered about his
habits: the way his fingers frustrated a pen,
how the bridge of his glasses would slide down
to the brim of nose in desperation, both eyebrows
raised to skepticism. But his lips remained lost, mirrored
the thin lines on each page--though, I knew, must
be every bit as full as its philosophical matter.
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