On Needing New Glasses
Even as your fingers
raise gooseflesh on my neck
like braille,
your face is a smudge.
I no longer bother to turn and look
at swimming features,
the melting flesh that could be anyone's.
I touch my bruises,
the marks of walking into doors.
I cannot recognise my friends
and every day another thing dissolves.
June 1998
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