I can’t afford to replace you.
                                       My wallet empty. No insurance.
             We’ve known each other for seven years.

Windows to the world, you lie
                                       on the bridge of my nose. 
             You wobble on my ears as if drunk.

Your hinges once silver, now grime-
                                      green, coated with dried sweat. Yes, 
              I should clean you with microfiber scraps. 

My gaze, weakening, nearsighted,
                                      turns turgid without you: 
             Without you, the world melts, light bleeding 

into light. Without you, blue jays 
                                      in birdbaths become watery bruises. 
             Without you, the bus on the highway 

blurs into a murderous solar flare. 
                                      At least I can see well enough through you. 
              Transition lenses wide, edges scratched,

optical coatings peeling—opaque sunspots 
                                       I’ve learned to ignore. Frame thick, black. 
              Rims like smoke rings above my eyes.