"That's not the kind of poetry I mean. What I mean is that you take a lot of words, put them together, and they tell you something. The whole point is that if you don't know where you are, the best thing to do is write a poem. All adventurers do that sort of thing. It's part of the job."
--from The End of the Beginning by Avi
"Can you see me?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," I said.
I touched his arms, his shoulders,
cradled the soft black of his head.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the man who loves you."
His voice trembled,
the ripple of which I saw in his eyes.
"Can you see me?" I asked.
"Who am I?"
"You're the woman that loves me," he said,
and a thing in me dissolved, and was swept away on the torrent.
For the moment, I was content to remain blinded,
and to trust his vision.
It is a hard thing to walk,
to trust that the ground is beneath your feet,
when the fog is so thick
that you can't see your feet.
A plane fell out of the sky yesterday, and a head of state lost his life.
So did his wife, a sculptor,
and ninety-four other important people; they,
distracted by their own mourning,
by the familiar pomp and ritual of remembrance,
couldn't see the ground rushing up to meet them through the fog.
Light bends, the eye flutters:
when I was six I swore I saw an ant
the size of a cat
crawl through my parents' laundry room.
What was it? A shadow? A ghost? A fear of ants?
Or was it the fog, crawling toward me, that scared me so?