Blind with Love

Blind with love.

The drivers of the North East know
that hares, and not only in Spring, go
on roads, and dance and run
and die, it is said, from love.
They are, we say, blind with love,
and do not see cars or roads or day or night
or the crows that wait for death.

And it is true that, in love, there is a lot we do not see.
But what I do see is
how the light touches your face:
How it falls on your eyelids as you read.
And in your words not only meaning
but music: The tones and rhythms of your voice.

So it is wrong to say that love and the hares and I
are blind when, the truth is,
we have uncommon sense:
Are more focussed, more intense: The hares on theirs
and I on mine: My love: You.

And tonight, again,
I dance on this road for you.
And I see no darkness, no
infinity of stars.
No past, no future:
What I see is you. You are
this heat in my heart,
the blood's course in my veins.
And I still cannot explain you:
Cannot see any headlights coming.