• His voice is like a siren's cry,
    pulls me into him.
    His strange and Danish tongue-
    a legend of its own,
    weaving stories with foreign sounds
    whose meanings flow through me.

    I wrap myself in Navajo,
    fibrous paint of old-
    and so his story conjures up:
    a tapestry of lore,
    colors, beings- veiled in night
    that only blind men know.

    Before he speaks, he blindfolds me,
    takes me to his world-
    infinity, a universe
    kinetic as his words take root,
    grow behind my eyes
    and bloom in nothingness.

    He colors life, kaleidoscope.
    Dark pupil-moon wanes,
    her memory alive in eyes:
    They steal the land, oblivious,
    pieces of seconds ticking by-
    ripping holes in paradise.

    And as he tires, the sun burns low-
    horizon blazes,
    pulses, shallow drums.
    Night shelters all, dark wings outstretched-
    a candle flickers
    and black snaps shut.

    My blindfold flutters, falls,
    and I return, mourning
    a world created,
    torn apart by ten o'clock.
    Their God lies sleeping
    wrapped up in my Navajo.