Late Reading
D
Daniel Brick
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The print is getting smaller
for each book I try to read.
I squeeze my sight to sharpen
those ever smaller letters, which
recede from my once immediate grasp.
What might I be missing?
Are there secrets being revealed
that to my eyes are just a jumble
of opaque letters? Are there new
patterns of writing that communicate
between the lines that are just
a horizontal blur to me? Could people,
incipient lovers all, have found fresh
emotions, once lodged deep in the heart,
now displayed openly in a print
that will not reach my hungry heart
because my sight is empty? How can I swell
my gaze to encompass such new wonders?
Or is this simply another betrayal
of time against the aging mind, still agile
enough to sustain desire but weakening
every moment its grasp of fleeting things?
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