Maybe it is only
That I love too much
rather than too little.
I blur the focus
by moving too close, then too remote:
the burning-glass I hold magnifies faults, virtues.
I am often told that I am too intense.
Maybe the trick is to stay slightly
Out-of-focus, myopic.
Settle for shapes grown fuzzy and soft
Rather than those sharp edges that can cut
the heart-line, leaving blood on every pale sleeve.
Perhaps that is why writers drink:
to keep from seeing the world too clearly.