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. 

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece

Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.
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.

Read More


Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.


With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.