beam
that's hitting my eye
at nine
in the morning.
i hold onto
the rails,
my head secured
in a contraption
and strap
worthy of keeping
Hannibal Lechter
immobile.
it's a short procedure,
cleaning
out debris,
the fog and haze
from a lens that replaced
a cataract.
in three days, the doctor
tells me
you'll be able to see the world
clearly.
i tell him, i'm not so sure
i want that.
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