January, and the monster is still wearing your spectacles.
I have to read the daily specials to you from blackboards.
I want to ask you why you gave your spectacles to a monster.
But instead you get down on one knee and ask me to marry you.
Monstrous, his marshy breath steaming up your expensive spectacles.
I answer an ad for an eight-month-old coonhound.
That monster, I mutter, is pure spectacle for the neighbours.
And you can’t walk the dog because you can’t read the signposts.
I start waking at night to read the monster Ginsberg:
O monster for real feed my hunger for spectacle:
and fall for myself, in your huge monstrous spectacles.