On a Half-Dark

Jorge Luis Borges wrote,

“Unknown to me, the closed encyclopedia,

the sweet play in volumes I can do no more

than hold, the tiny soaring birds, the moons

of gold. Others have the world, for better

or worse; I have this half-dark, and the toil

of verse.”

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He went blind. I didn’t know this. He was a polymath, poet, and author from Argentina. I write the following out of respect and admiration for him. May he rest in peace:

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This half-dark, a fragrance that compels me to write

from an inner fortress that captures how their wings

sliced through clear blue sky. I stretch my fingers into

night’s oblivion, recall my own fear of catching sight

of a reflection in a mirror. The shards have come for

me, slicing their way through, and I let out a half-gasp.

An inner striving towards, not necessarily beyond, but

to grasp. What? I’m not sure. It was dark here once,

now shades of blue confused for green. Red beckons,

and I moan in hunger, groan in anticipation, crave

night. I crave. I hunger. I grasp. Words upon words

creeping into themselves until they become a labyrinth

I tire of exploring. Quiet? Is it ever silent anywhere?