“não há pior desgraça que cego em Granada.”
My grandfather hands me the sentence like it’s older than both of us.
Blind.
Funny how the word fits over so many eyes.
The ones that read without looking.
The ones that look without seeing.
I used to think a poem had to grow.
Now I think it has to erode.
Chip away at the noise
until what’s left could have been hidden inside the stone all along.