Unlike my parents, ever since birth

My vision has always been 20/20.

Recently, I have noticed small letters

And signs start to fade.


As if  they were returning themselves

To the wall, as a kind of ghost image;

With all I’d seen, read and witnessed

Abruptly regifted to somebody else’s


Bright page. As your sight starts to bow,

Hiding itself behind glasses,

Do the previous things become novels

To be never looked at, or read?


I can see the light play on grass

At Seven O Clock in the morning,

But as my fade begins, will I be moving

Too quickly towards the boundaries


Of the dead? Soon, I will have to submit myself,

It is clear, to examination’s blur and aid vision,

And in that way signal aging along with the concision

That comes with late life.


I will possibly see less and less

And yet what I will perceive will be balanced

By the memories and by writing,

As if the act of recalling, itself, was a wife.


There will be the companionship of the past,

As if one’s own experience could be married.

As I consider this, look; my parents! Lives lost,

Their pale glasses are immaculately glazed


By starlight.





David Erdos 4/8/17
Illustration Nick Victor


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