Asked to read lines of letter and numbers projected
on a wall, my eyes confuse G with O and 2 with Z.
The doctor puts large drops of rain in my eyes,
and my eyes get stoned.
He puts a contraption on his head. To my eyes,
it makes him look like a cyborg ant-eater.
A gentle torturer, he shines bright light behind
my eyeballs, and I feel like I'm in a movie from 1971.
He tells me I have "divergence inconsistency"- one
eyeball's a lazy focuser, or is on a work slow-down.
When the doctor giggles, he sounds like Jim Backus
as Mr. Magoo. My ears see the humor in this.
hans ostrom 2018
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem