Glasses (July)

They get in the way, not reading. I notice them obstruct my view, redundant window frames. So wear them little as possible. Put them down wherever I find myself. Which is why they go missing. All the time. What’s the secret ingredient? The fine print needs magnifying. I can’t read what’s happening in July. Where are they? Walk. Have a way of moving around. Sneaky. Not on the opened book. Not on the silver tray, s’il vous plaît. Glove box. Search ends at window frames: lovely wordless colours. Show up when least looking. In the pocket of the other coat. 

Glasses (March)

Curve behind ear holds eyesight in place. Arm reaches into space, gripping hold of reflections. Rim mimics brow like a prow. Hinge clarifies words that turned to raincloud. Frame changes facials, frame fronts up like a fashion. Bridge keeps scribes connected, vision in the balance. Lens reasserts certainty, the March of Time. Glasses, the common name, reveal their middle age origins. They gloss gossip, glaze through guesses, glister at getup. Bifocals, no one calls them bifocals much, or spectacles – ghostly synonyms. Eyes age from early, watching every shade of colour, delighted by ease. Left somewhere forgotten, they magnify light alone.