I’m getting too old to be a participant in the usual madness.
troubles my sight
the world dims, colors flatten, faces
melt into paper thin shadows. my glasses
darken and refuse to clear, even in sterile
florescence. at the doctor’s, the eye chart
remains elusive, letters smeared over
piss yellow indifference, as the drops
burn into gasping retinae. i stare into
the tiny search light. well, he says, this
young puppy faced boyman, there’s good news
and bad. you don’t need a new prescription,
he says, that won’t help, because you’re growing
cataracts, but we can cut them out and then
you’ll see better than you have in a long
while --
my eyes may be cloudy but my inner sight
swirls in nauseating technicolor. the first
and last time i was sliced it was to free
our sleeping daughter from her fleshy cradle.
you can do it now, he said, or wait, it’s all
the same ... and in that infinite second of silence
i decide to stay in the fog for now,
to cling to dull shadows, to let the world’s shine
die
this terrifying while. to wait inside myself, afraid
to truly see.
