The Age of Wearing Glasses The fields icy fresh, allowing purple light, dawn. Towns of anything call people, people the enticing. Average shapes become mordant, proclaiming the redundancy of difference. Child’s play initiates transport to gardens. Mild exuberance, remember the tremendous prank. T Townfolk, townfolk, townfolk, yet the book is unreadable. Merry seasons fill the blue sky. Ouster impresses. Each singular leaf reminds the tree, and the intending distance of time. So forks reside with the spoons as do all spurious details. We’re waiting for the Confessional Poets to give their clue. The all of anything becomes the instant something, known to melt the ocean.