Winter 2011 • Vol. XXXIII No. 1 Poetry |

Was Blind, but Now

For the first time, a man wears his glasses and is startled by the crispness of things, the lines etched on every surface, the colors racing toward him. How the horizon, once a dull throb, is suddenly alive, an artery with a hundred roads busting out in each direction. The rain is no longer one solid sheet, but thousands of tiny letters in a message now clear. Mostly, he finds himself staring. First at the ground, then the sky, then in the direction of his wife, whose once blurred shape is now a cloud of purple sandpipers, the limb of an olive tree, and the clearing beyond. 

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Matthew Olzmann is the author of two poetry collections: Mezzanines and Contradictions in the Design (both from Alice James Books). He teaches at Dartmouth College and in the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College.

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