(15/07/56 / Curragh Camp, Co. Kildare, Eire.)

Your Glasses

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.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 1 votes ) 1

Comments (1)

Gulp...I'll go now! I always start reading you and then a poem like this will stop me in my tracks and I can't go on! I was reading your beautiful TELLING HIM JENNY poem and then I came to this and I thought is this still about Johnny? It's so sad and there is nothing but a blur of words and tears that I can't...see through! What I love about your poems is that they make me care about people I don't even know or can't know now and you make me care so much about them as if I too had loved them...so that when I get to a poem like this...it really hurts me. Your poems make me love and hurt the way you do but your poems are braver than I feel...sometimes. I can't get Johnny out of my mind reciting silently that poem and then to see his death from this angle through the ordinary discarded glasses is just much too much. I go to weep for someone you have made me care about. This is so real a moment in which the whole world shrinks to this one happening. Dee Dee