(Hammill)
He's a blind man, crouching by the pavement,
only seeing with his third eye,
and clutching at the astral shadow
of every passer-by.
He's a wise man, trumping all the answers;
she's a wild girl, trying to keep his feet on the floor
in whispered physical litanies:
"Stay away from the door."
"Oh, but we're all in this together," he says,
"three-legged race across the floor;
if only you'd loosen the handkerchief
then I'd forget the door."
"Ooh, that feels so much better," he says,
"now you forget everything that I've said before
and sit there all by yourself
while I walk through the door."
They're a blind man, crouching by the pavement,
only seeing with his third eye,
and clutching at the astral shadow
of the door of a room
called 'I'.
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