And so I think of the Glaswegian, who pronounces “glasses” as “glaises”, and continually breaks his own by sitting on them. Each time I see his face, the glaises sit lopsided, drooping where the reparative tape begins to fail.
For the longest time he didn’t know he needed glasses. He was blitzed-drunk every morning, noon and night and therefore had no idea that the blurry vision of his every waking moment was poor eyesight in addition to the side effects of drink.
I wear them. They help me. But I
Don’t care for them. Two birds, steel hinges
Haunt each an edge of the small sky
My green eyes make. Rim-horn impinges
Upon my vision’s furry fringes;
Faint dust collects upon the dry,
Unblinking shield behind which cringes
My naked, deprecated eyes.
My gaze feels aimed. It is as if
Two manufactured beams had been
Lodged in my sockets – hollow, stuff,
And gray, like mailing tubes – and when
I pivot, vases topple down
From tabletops, and women frown.