Sightless, she’d never seen a circle, never seen a clock.
So I started below her solar plexus, high noon,
circled inside her ribcage, drawing inward
as it yielded outward,
touched down at 6 o’clock
on the button of her Levi’s,
ascending from six to nine, to rejoin her ribs
and back past her emptied lungs
to her heartbeat, stroke of midnight.
“That’s a clock,” I breathed.
She took my hand, replaced it
and traced another day.
We passed this blind weekend
beyond sight into vision.