Sight Lines

My vision variously dulls and sharpens –
rash degrees and strange polarities
of sight from which some central mental

agency in me decrees that I should
squint at fuzzy shadowed distances – find
preternaturally clear exactitudes up-close:

axial myopia – wherein the complicated
bulb of eye elongates: renders less than
optically optimal effect – well, one has got

to give the thing respect. I take my glasses
off and pull my fingers close to cut my
fingernails and whoa! – thank heavens for

the vista of my pathological utopia: how else
would I have come to know these microscopic-
tiny leaves of keratin? – that tough protein

whose layers split and sever flakily when
sliced and clipped – precise and quick
and fine; continuing to keep my spectacles

at bay – thus to align my eyes and train
their gaze across the room to see
a looseness splay and loom – I watch

impressionism fill the predawn light with
inexplicability and gloom – assuming instant
mystery. What glories do the vagaries

of less than perfect eyesight lend! – which
vanish just as soon as I commit the crime
of putting on my glasses once again.

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