Rays of Evening

I have come to favor sunglasses, having realized I chafe at brightness, my eyes raw, perhaps, from excess, of seeing.  I cannot carry them, though -- my pockets are already brimming, with belongings, I scarcely remember.  So I avoid disclosure, with pleasure, on occasion, with a borrowed pair.  Satisfying the primal appetite:  oblivion -- the loveliness of nothing, but radiance, worries, of money, gone the way of mounting minor maladies, and this stiff back, rapid breath, and that epic walk to sea, your hand, on my hair, my head, in your leg.