Poem — John Allison

The Blind Musician

My fingers read the braille

of your body, sensing

lyrics in your skin,

the music on these staves

of your rib‑cage. I lean

close to hear its cadences:

breathing. You are song,

I sense your vibrancy.

This is the tactus

of the composition:

It is there, beneath

my fingertips …

Touching lets me know

what is between us.

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