New Spectacles, 1727

What will a man give to see. Across the room,
the window, through the window, a tree.
The marriage of sand and fire, this glass,
spun thin to keep the weather out, but let
the sunlight in. A bubble that does not burst,
but hardens to be cut and ground into something
beautiful. Half a lifetime of fog, and suddenly
the fog clears. My wife, forgetting me, pauses
and closes her eyes but still smiles.

What a man will give not to see. Across the room
could have been a world away to me.
This marriage of ours, delicate as glass,
has spun thin enough to let the outside in.
A bubble has burst, the fragments hardened
and ground into dust. Half a lifetime of clarity,
and suddenly the fog rolls in. My wife,
remembering me, looks up, and does not smile.