Your story is in Spanish:
a blind man visits, eats, drinks, smokes
and searches your face with his fingers after dinner. 

To feel someone's eyes upon you, you say, 
is a metaphor. To feel someone's fingers 
on your eyelids is also a metaphor 
for truth.

Sometimes I tunnel to know how deep the clay begins,
to know "cathedral" in Spanish
to know poetry in S = KlnW
to know where I'm alone.

When you say, "Dádivas ablandan peñas," and hand me a wild cut twine, taut with a kite, I see your scarred fingers  and know

your gift is not a kite, wise with wind
but the tunnel you dug

and the stone in my hand crumbles