Centurial glass of my old house distorts
the world. A nod or sway of head will bend
a tree limb, curve the straight line of a curb
or warp a bird perched on a wire or fence,
and wrinkle time, perhaps, as if I peered
through winter ice or water’s purling prism,
through eyes where floaters drift a host of ghosts
across my skies. Today’s hot furnaces
burn dross, drive gasses from new liquid glass
that cools on tin toward Hubble-clarities.
But I’ll not swap old glass panes out; I favor
scenes with blips and wrinkles, knots and whorls,
intrinsic quirks, reminders of our blight,
the perfect imperfection of human sight
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