Glasses are like a sheen over the soul,
like looking at everything from behind a window--
like the neonatal observation glass
between the babies in their plastic holders
and the hardier folk pondering from the other side.
Sometimes my glasses get smeared,
and I peer and peer for a clear spot
in a mist-thick world, knowing the blear is only
just in front of my eyes. And always
there's the scratch--the familiar place
I learn not to see.
And then, sometimes, particularly before bed,
I take my glasses off altogether,
and the world becomes suddenly
as broad and soft as an impressionist painting,
but then I can't find the details.
Am I learning to prefer contacts?
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