The Blind Man of Bethsaida

Well-worn fingertips of unfamiliar hands
brush his eyelids with something slimy.
A dead nerve at the front of his brain
twitches into motion:

dim fingures move like trees.

Then these same new hands
tapping eyes again

and again.

First thing fully seen
is the                 imprint
of a man's fingertips
in the dust at his feet.
I write poetry exploring the relationships between humans, space and faith. In my spare time, I enjoy watching k-dramas and knitting.
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