Finding things was my claim to fame. Small things–
mushrooms among the mayapples. The pocket knife
in the weeds or my sister’s contact lens in leaves—panic
till found. Though littlest, I got high praise
as the best berry picker. But in school,
I couldn’t see the blackboard; from the piano bench,
the notes. My eyes were, in fact, sharp—warped—
long, myopic eyeballs with acute curves, legally blind.
Then, I was Four Eyed, not super-powered,
but near-sighted. Left to me what I knew all along:
a wide-eyed looking, an open gaze
beyond the eyes. It was the looking hard,
the full patient search done mostly by feel,
like dirty dishes–the greasy residue,
the burnt on crust that fingers find best.
I knew up close the trouble with looking and seeing:
the maybe fatal sharpness of what is found.