Allan Peterson

At the corner of my eye is the most exasperating



fringe at the oceanic hem of vision



—the beveled edge of glasses.



Most of the world is peripheral it seems



to what falls on the macula  the fovea. caught



in a single ?ashlight that seems like trouble. Look



it’s clouding up again.



The shadow of a palm is a lizard the wind runs back and forth



on the handrail faster than the others.



I think I could spend forever in the space of one Shef?era



 



Lawn chairs drag their shadows back and forth daily.



I wake up with pet clippers and the dog thinking



it’s a bath so ?attens and slinks away.



But I am not awake and the dog is gone for years.



The incoming gold is doubloons and escudos and chain



and all the pinnate and ovate leaves are nodding *of course*



to the light wind from Mexico and its plundered treasure.



Waking up with not so much as a pause in delivery.



 



I think I am awake and I think if I sit



in a new place I will see new things dancing and dancing



as well in the banks of my glasses chrome and backwards.



 



What has come onto the window frame is the depth



of blasphemy everything ?attened by intent.



The trees are cut-outs as if put together with a wrench and socket set.



Carved birds strung before the doorway.



But something solid is a problem worth having.



We are such poor redeemers.



Glass. A substance you can make a dog out of and two gazelles



with a blowtorch and still see the whole coast straight on



as it is now edged in spectra.