The
right temple of my reading glasses comes
Loose
and I discover my wounded glasses
Take
a secret name every Sunday night
My
glasses assume a hidden word regardless
That
I close my eyes in shadows and holler
Until
frost beards the windows in May I still
Can’t
understand the sound can’t say
Exactly
what letters form that proper noun
Tiny
as the screw that holds the arm to its hinge
My
glasses tell me they can’t stand the day
Called
Monday which they say stinks
Of
vinegar and is all full of those terrible holes
Reading
bare-eyed gives me a headache
All
those words passing through my forehead
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