At dusk, without glasses, the world
assumes the fabric of a faded peach,
which is to say slightly furry
like a sandstorm under water.
Blinded by the streetlights’ murky aurora
swimming in vitreous humour
I am lost, bereft of the hardened angles
with which usually I tough things out.
My left eye (travesty of clear sight and logic)
sees illegible menace in the blur of streetscapes.
My own skull reflected in the dark window.
The soft fungus of sight makes all the mistakes
of impressionism, and all the finer points as well.
Moon like a dandelion on the point of bursting,
tree line waving as the windblown sea,
sparkling air that is not air.