So, I turned to lens cutting for a living.
Corrective work, in a time of shortsightedness.
An astigmatic time too: few saw how Os gaped on drawn faces – none heard them.
Precise work. Blown glass alone kept its shape, amongst so much hot air.
Still, a glance up
from my cutter one afternoon was the only point I saw violence in focus. Show pieces were cracking up in the heat.
All summer, tyres roared in backyards, as they burnt: there were roars of laughter in the streets.
I made a steady living, under the occupation. Precise, painstaking work –
this is to correct the record.