To look into the pure white of paper,
to dream of an egret atop the mangroves,

the way a squirrel will saunter across
the pond, a balancing act among broken

twigs, one false move, and . . . vultures
huddled over a carcass. This much

is true, at the end of the white tunnel,
there is a light, a bright flash of opaline.

Blinded, the poet walks through glass,
the cut bottoms of his feet leaving

a trail that if anyone cares to follow,
you can find the poet in the garden,

a hoe in his hands, the earth tilled, ready.