Blind Spot

Two days, the eye in the horse's head worked
but with granular vision. A warning nicker, a turn,

she would knock her cheekbone into the stall door,
bursting the barely mended eye of orbit waters,

half-full, half-empty sight. That flood
on top of which many Edens had floated —

like the tree of radish-small apples, like the grass —
had sprung from the deep channels of the brain

and meandering up would pool in the blank socket
to come into light through the luminous, black pupil.

When there's nothing to do but start over, she
curves ingeniously toward the view, sidling

into the world's crabbed dogs and snapping flags,
hiding the blind spot: what isn't, what can't be.

Beth Thomas
Seneca Review
Voume XXXV, Number 2
Fall 2005

Copyright © 2005 by by Hobart and William Smith Colleges
All rights reserved
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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