On your new glasses

Your glasses like a hymn on my face, on the bridge of my nose, made a sea of the earth and rolled it and churned it, revolving dirt into darkness and my legs and me, we walked on, and I looked up and there you were among a forest of birches and street lamps, the golden sheets of light peeling off into dots, little yellow dots, so that light and rain were one grand pouring around us and we just walked on. And your glasses like a hymn on my face made my legs into nothing, so that as I walked I became amazed at my movements and I watched my feet step forward in the darkness and thought, this must be heaven; and soon the gold of the street lamps reverberated somewhere, mounting, and having swirled up into majesty, plunged down again in many breaths and landed in the birches and darkness as the bleating sound of a trumpet, mourning, but playing a happy tune because, well, isn't it a lovely night, and here we are. And we wondered is it the glasses, these glasses, your new glasses, or is it hormones, or is it a combination, or is it, I wondered to myself, just our imaginations? But we just kept walking in the hymnal night, you wearing your glasses because I told you, I can't walk in these things, and feeling numb and calm, we walked to the bottom of the hill where we looked around and then at each other and found ourselves at peace.