I wear them. They help me. But I

Don’t care for them. Two birds, steel hinges,

Haunt each an edge of the small sky

My green eyes make. Rim-horn impinges

Upon my vision’s furry fringes;

Faint dust collects upon the dry,

Unblinking shield behind which cringes

My naked, deprecated eye.

My gaze feels aimed. It is as if

Two manufactured beams had been

Lodged in my sockets—hollow, stiff,

And gray, like mailing tubes—and when

I pivot, vases topple down

From tabletops, and women frown.