Thousands of glasses, twisted
like millions of spider legs, delicate
and the lenses that glitter-
hard eyes without a soul. I admit
I winced, instinctively
putting my hands up to my eyes,
for a second feeling the disorientation
and the dizziness, the helplessness
that come nightly with taking out
my contact lenses, before
I wear the glasses again
that accent my eyes, accomplices
aiders and abettors to the expression
of the soul I still have.