In a beauty shop called Perfect Look your blindness sits upon a couch.
Companions are two bright white canes and hands that grope for utter sensitivity.
I watch you in the wide mirror of a nervous room, where people speak of everything except that that . That fact they cannot reconcile. Your patience in a line of clients passing you. Hurried by a slipping sun. We have the blessing of seeing it set, take its palette quite for granted writing off its orange shade like marmalade beside a slate of common toast.