Everyone looks pretty when I take off my glasses.
I blink, rub twin bruises from my nose, eyes
narrowed like the tip of a Dali paintbrush: melting liquid

color on a pregnant canvas. I let pigment run
into faces: heads lumpier than hand-rolled *****
of clay, black mouths rippling like asphalt

puddles, bodies quivering like overcooked
linguine: blurred, as if viewing them without
prescription has stripped and censored

their naked bodies. Sightless, I see
with my ears: watch the tone of their voices, taste
the words that unfurl from the breath

on their tongues. I see with my skin, feel
the atmospheres that slow-boil under their own.
I see from the depth of my stomach: absorb

the energies that hit my belly-button: third eye.
And when I've seen, I replace my glasses

                                                        ­                  blink.

Sight eclipses my vision: stubborn
lines and harsh contrasts framed
in unforgiving black boxes. I think maybe

I'd rather brave the world blind –
nose bare, eyes squinted, and belly grumbling
– if only so I could see with clarity.