You Do Not See This House

You do not see this house,
would pass it by like
any other on your way home
to your house
I do not see.

You do not see this garden
and trample unseen toil,
as if this shroud of grass
I do not want to see
has always been.

You do not see this room,
or you would not interrupt
this searching sunlight
washing over
that wall.

You do not see this floor,
these precious paths
that lead from dusty,
empty room to
empty room.

You do not see this chair,
but still you see
a chair; you sit with
a sigh, perhaps,
obliterating dreams.

You do not see this man
longing to be blind,
rejoicing that you are blind,
here in this house
you do not see.