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I stopped growing.
My eyes didnít
and now this
magazine is so
close I could eat
its fuzzy photos.
The headlines
arenít sure what
flavour they are.
I am curling my
index finger
against my
thumb joint
to make a tiny
hole to see
through. An
old trick.

 
Youth sounds
naÔve in the
mouth of the
optician. Two
weeks to learn
to see using
three fields
of vision but
I have to wait
until itís really
bad. My brain
is adrift Ė thatís
bad.
 
Hopefully rescued,
Iím newly glazed,
on the look-out
as the floor
sneaks away.
Iím fed up
and Iíve given up.
 
I read the advert on the wall. The floor reads it too.
Iíve forgotten itís day fourteen. Youth was right.
What shall I read for lunch today?
 
Susan Wilson


If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Susan Wilson would be pleased to hear them


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