Smeared Glasses.

I’ve lost my lens cleaner, that blue silky slip that comes with the newly folded receipt and the unscuffed glasses case. They tell me I can use washing up liquid and a hand towel. But I would never stoop to that. I want my lens cleaner. I want to rub the bevel of ground glass between thumb and forefinger. Wouldn’t you?

“What?”

Want to rub the ground-glass bevel with the blue silky slip that comes with the newly folded receipt and the unscuffed glasses case?

“Yes I would, Jet, despite your poky one syllable name, want to rub the ground-glass bevel with the blue silky slip that comes with the newly folded receipt and the unscuffed glasses case.”

And so, with your rhetorical support, you find me, stubbornly, adverbly, with due disregard for the kitchen towel and the gut punched fairy liquid container,  staring out at the world though today’s salad cream and yesterday’s sneeze. This world is no better or worse, it is only less than.

It is <

A ducks beak. A muted ducks beak.

And yet with one rub of my blue silky slip I would see those ducks up high,  see so much more than these lopsided lenses. With my blue silky slip I would see those ducks migrating in a squadron shaped >

The clear eyed one at point.

 

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Comments are closed.