Blur

Sometimes I pity those with perfect vision:
twenty-twenty crew who'll never fall
unawares into Monet landscapes
stroll onto Pisarro streets.

The permanently naked-eyed
take for granted the intimate shock
of meeting a stranger's glance unbarriered;
miss the subtly sexy
removal of specs
a moment before the kiss,
the comical passion
of fogged-up window panes.

Surprises must be rare for non-myopes;
no purple birds on market stalls
that sharpen into paper lanterns,
motley troops of misshapen dwarves
that turn into backpacking preschoolers.

They see every blemish on every face
right from the start,
stride a world spiky
with clear hard boundaries.