To An Optometrist

Ultra-violet he has no
Assumed name nor identity
His unworked hands
On my Eyes, lifting: probing:
The brightness inoffensive
I lean forward
And do not see Dresden nor
Snow on the Urals nor
Swans in Vienna
I simply see
My hair grown too long over
My brows, his soft unworn
Fingers brushing up the
Delicate space beneath my
Eyelid and "better?" yes
Too…to, that is to see
A dawn (not specific…broad
Generalities are fine now.)
O'er Somewhere he promises
None of that but he does his
Own black eyes behind
Iron rims, meniscus-shaped
Lenses contracted for his
Own deficiencies, it is
Reassuring that all the Perfect
Doctors are saving Brains
And Hearts with their clear
Vision bit his unused hands
Draping in my
Own immediacy, my
Dilated pupils eating the
Hazel which he was close
Enough to
To see. Only darkroom glowing
Charts and Things and
His is better in reframing Sight…
Delicacy drastically
My face
And my hair most
Importantly my
Eyes he recognizes no
Longings only the
Softness of his professional