Lighting matches, not even a flashlight...
now, our light tricks give out
and even the faint
of the next step is gone...
Now, we too have become a dark shape
perhaps pre-human, groping
with protective appendages
in front of the eyes...
This must be the beetle,s journey
to wander alone, without overview
tentatively waving a cane
at the Braille immediacy
of each looming stalk of grass...
And so we amble toward the new
ddddddddddddddddddddddddddiin the dark
feeling with our feet
the ruts and wet places
is this the path
or am I truly lost?
(this poem first appeared in the
Buddhist literary journal Blind Donkey)