It was with stony disbelief
they watched as I slowly lifted
the strands of hair at the back of my head.
And when they blinked, I smoothed
the disarray and said, did you see them?
I, of course, had grown another
set of eyes on the back of my head.
But only after the children came, of course.
The other one, in front, I pointed out,
set between the other two like yours,
I've always had and thought the world did too.
It helped me to reach places like your heart.
You always had a key to my head, one said
and I was shocked. I did not know that I did.
I did not mean to invade your privacy.
And another, breathless, shaken, rushed
into the house one foggy night
and said, you won't believe this! (But I did.)
There they were on bicycles all five abreast,
dressed in white. They stayed in front of me
till I turned the car at the corner, home.
And then they vanished you wailed.
And I said, I know, I know, they are your friends.
And another said, we are the listeners.
The world does not listen but we hear.
The raindrops speak to the windowpanes
and apologize for clouding their vision.
And the windows say my eyes needed washing anyway.
And I say, you know, you know.
We hear the anguish of the world in motion,
in the raucous laughter in words unsaid, said.
They see the world in shades of white and black,
denying spectrums of themselves in brilliant hue.
These souls who question us
are sight and sound and color blind,
living in a world of no dimension.