i just stay here with my eyes open,
because i’m glasses.
i don’t know how to see, i’m simply glasses.
like the key shell on the stove,
not looking at anything, just existing.
more than that, i don’t even know how to close my eyes.
i’m like time that eats ice.
after eating, i don’t remember what i ate.
it’s like sand gnawing on waves.
& the waves keep coming.
i don’t look, feel, or think.
i just am.
colorless.
in my left eye, there’s the sea, & in my right eye, the sky. that’s all.
between the sea and the sky, i exist. that’s all.
i’m like a raft tied to the shore, swaying this way and that.
don’t ask me where i’ll be in ten years.
i’ll just be here. because i’m glasses.
maybe i’ll be lying down with my legs curled up.
whether being taken off or put on, i just exist.
people who come to me are divided into left sky and right sea.
so talking to glasses is nonsense.
it’s like talking to your own ears.
talking about our memories in front of me is the nonsense of nonsense.
but that doesn’t mean i’m blind.
i just stay here with my eyes open.
“empty-headed”—i like that word.
empty-headed? i’m empty.
there’s a diver lady.
she ties a 25-meter oxygen tube to her suit,
puts on a helmet like an astronaut, & dives into the sea to gather key shells.
she walks through the deep sea for eight hours a day.
every three hours, she climbs onto the boat tied to the sea, drinks milk, eats bread,
& then digs through the sand again.
like a black seal on a leash. her skin is slippery.
key shells hide deep beneath the sea in the sandy desert.
a place where no one goes.
a place with key shells, hooks, oxygen tubes, & goggles.
& behind the goggles, the lady is there.
she grinds big ice to make the lenses.
she puts those lenses in her mouth.
the sea rains down.
the sea speaks.
i just stay here with my eyes open.
because i’m glasses.
