Looking rather like
A rotationally challenged pair
Of the reddest veined breasts

I gaze back into my rendered
Retinas, which are healthy
And good, I guess, since childhood

Deigned them only a short
Focal length, shorter than my
Memory of anatomy

As retinas go. Blindingly obvious
The parallels with trees and roots
Or things with roots that see

Faintly tracing back a path
Through blood to something core
And bright as a disk

A moon, perhaps? A shrouded Sun
Lost in the retinue fog, a swirling
Orange mass, a corona ring

Of visions past, flash – illuminated
For a nanosecond in the dark universe
Of the optometrists chair

He, the beholder of my eye
lies, and tells me to thicken
my rims with paper thin hope

I grope through the darkness
for there, somewhere is
bifocal light