A blind man’s fingers
Would trace a path
Across the knotted folds
Of knobbled flesh;

Linger over loss lines

Feel the weeping writ there
In rips that have puckered
The pulsing surface
Of this,
Her Time-Beater
Her Record-Keeper

A blind man
Would find himself reminded
Of the bowl held once
Among the shoals of she-oak
Tannin-stained
Brim-full

The cracks
All limned with gold