Your Glasses
D Dónall Dempsey
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You always
holding in conversation
the lens of your glasses
between thumb & index
leaving a whirlpool
of fingerprints
trapped upon
the glass
your glasses
where you left them
gathering dust
I try them on
(now you’ve gone)
I squint
through a thumbprint
trying to see
as you saw
the strength
of your vision
hurting me
your glasses
too dirty
for sight
your death
nothing but a blur
of words & tears
I...I...
can’t…see through.
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