Seeing in the Dark
Somebody sees what a train sees
through its single eye
as it tears the night open
with a beam of light
that sears the tracks.
Somebody knows how it feels
to trust in steel
holding wheels to their purpose
and to follow
two parallel lines
always promising to meet
but never touching. Somebody
is acquainted with the freedom
that speeding through darkness
brings, arms outspread, hair blown back,
too powerful to stop.
Somebody sees what the thief sees
when he puts on a mask,
enters a house
without turning on a lamp,
navigating by touch
room after room
where he opens drawers and closets
to feel the textures inside them
of crackling money
and jewels that are cold
in his hand
as he takes them without making a sound.
Somebody sees what a child sees
when, unable to sleep,
he lies on a bed of sounds:
the shutter nudged by a breeze
at the window, the faithful drip
of water from a faucet,
the ceiling fan’s cool whisper,
and the tapping
of a blind man’s cane
in the street outside.
