A World Without Lenses

I stare out the window with no contacts
fuzzy lines of trees, the heavy expanse
of a clouded sky.
I cannot see anything
other than the structures of houses,
their white wooden siding
like ribs. There is a line of snow,
the skeleton
of a streetlight pole
with invisible wire.
I imagine the cold air, rough bark
of naked tree limbs.
In the distance there is a dark shape:
a car, small dog. I do not squint,
but see that blob as it is, shades
of brown in the beige of dead cornfields.
I press my nose to the window
warm breath, cool glass
and I take it all in,
eyes wide, unblinking.