The mind is rustling
clothes, sound shadows
and deadening echoes. 

The feel of her proximity
and the wall when a blind
man is walking too close. 

Like black panthers, all of us
find our way by vibrations, 
when the night gets too dark.

And in the morning, the mind is
a patch of parsley green moss on
the white flesh of birch trees. 

The ones my daughter plays peekaboo
behind. And the reason elephants console
each other, and the universe is so cold

and silent. Empty in the silence. 
A mirror grasping for nothing, reflecting
but never holding.

George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat ReviewMoria Poetry JournalChronogram JournalAmpersand Literary ReviewThe Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays and letters have appeared in USA TodayThe Wall Street JournalThe AtlanticHavana TimesSouth China Morning PostThe Buffalo News, and more. 

See all his poems on Tea House here.

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