"What do you see?" he asked me.
It was a simple question:
describe what is before you,
give it a name. Do you remember?
No? Well, do the best you can.
All this was in my head then,
but I froze, all categories lost,
edges blurred into backgrounds,
names of things locked in a child's room.
"I see men," I cried, "They look like trees."
Would uncarved hope make it true enough,
this true answer, short of the mark?
"How about now?" he said, and touched
my eyes again, thumbs across my eyelids.
We were tested, both of us, and passed.