She’s a painter in oils in the land of the blind —
and a sculptor over the dead.
The deaf will demur to her poetry
while epics roar in her head.

Like Cassandra, who spun futures
so dolefully from frenzied lips,
Her words are as mad to insensate hearts
as sea-sunk towers, desert ships.

Would that I could assuage that hearth
where her discernment smolders —
my hands around the hard and the white
limestone of her shoulders.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2020

“Evening Mood,” William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1882