THE BOY'S GLASSES SO CLOSE THE PAGES GREW DAMP
My life isn't easy reading
as if words were cheap.
coding braille lumps on my brain,
turned pages filled with someone else's marginalia.
I remember the library books that my mother
would lovingly dust down and erase,
before I could scan and listen
to a robot spelling every lesion
of fading vision; decode the dots
I never learned, that now reform
in the posterior hippocampus,
like rainy inner streets in the memory
of a New York taxi driver
listening to the smell of the sun.
My father said he would not buy
me the software
unless I would get the degree done.
But my life isn't easy reading.
I still want an alphabet to touch
like natural letters that match the heart
of our environment,
hands linked in infinite ways.