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The Seer

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The man was white, grey and pale brown,
the colorless colors of a used-up earth
where water has sunk down,
sunk down so low and risen
so far above the grey-white pale-brown heaven
and shrunk so far within itself
that it will not come back. What can moisten
a shriveled water, or can a clod of ash
regain colors from the identical howl
of a white powder sun?

Not in me, he said,
ever again, but in the street
with engine and worker petals, not papery,
more fragile than that, there will be color.
My eye will reach color, all colors, every one
together, which no one will see in me
ever again.

I turned to the sky then
and it was all one blue, the color of seeing,
and yet was as many blues, as subtle,
as tones of stubble in the most sunken cheek.

Source: Poetry (June 2007)

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This poem originally appeared in the June 2007 issue of Poetry magazine

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The Seer

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