Surely not a Celtic Twilight,

just a dimming around the edge.

The famous eye surgeon eyes me

as if I were a pool of trout.

His instruments puzzle me—

hooks and lances and machines

that swab and hiss excessively.

I must lie as flat and still

as a bronze tombstone figure.

The instruments tease at me.

The surgeon cocks his pallid gaze.

I’ve never deflated so easily,

my thin respiration

more a courtesy than necessity.

After counting to massive numbers

I realize I’m still too awake

and must suffer this moment as is—

the dusk whispering about me

until it erupts into lamplight

I must stare down merely to live.