Experience is my white cane.
Reflectively I learn from grip
through interpretation as response.
Tension is me, hidden in my hand.
Is this, by sweep and contact,
the letting out of me?
A presence, through experience,
invisibly passing as cane work,
studied-ness into purposeful acts,
directedness into strategies,
accomplishment as if by display.
Simply humbled into pointy presence
as tapping is a tenderness of feel,
a prominence of touches as knocks
providing sentences of logical fill.
By my experiential grip,
I learn of soul,
perched with my talons
alternately upon this pole.
As if by search and deftness,
a script pores out of me,
signatured in pokes and passing.
If spirit be this long white lantern,
do my senses come to know
by cast or by contact
as reflection about my character?
Who of me
negotiates doing's elaborateness?
Who sews with these plots of intention?
Who of me seeks, with the lay of hand,
further definition of my existence?
What grip of mine
transfixed as personality,
expresses this patient angst applied
as fingers articulating cane?
I am held and withheld,
portrayed as fistful leads.
This hand puppet of me
holding on
as a white tongue of elocution
amidst life's colorless
three-dimensional void
presumed by most others
as an inevitable choir of pain.
My spirit leans task forward
as if a presence engaged
and so much consumed
as phantom to fill stature
is behind my actions
as my ever purposeful deeds.
So much of flame obscured
by this avalanche of contacts,
by this flash flood of response,
by this quicksand
of short lived acquisition,
by this famine
towards self insistence,
by this lust for inclusion's sake.
What upheaval strolls
this experiential life as me,
apparently as blind as stone
and yet as soul that knows . . . ?
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