Near-Sighted

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NEAR-SIGHTED


Desperate to dispel the mist

            without confessing that yes, this

necessitates a lens, you strain

            till cotton balls are leaves again. 

Stop squinting, son, before all

            the leaves return to cotton balls

and your criterion for clarity 

            has so subliminally atrophied 

that you're content with such.

            You're blind—now beg a crutch.

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