Sometimes, not enough,

I'd really look at you

and say: Let me clean your glasses.

You'd take them off.

Blink. Hand them over.

Pull out a folded handkerchief

from your trouser pocket

and give that up, too.
It's always the edges that get blurry.

I'd work on those the longest, teasing out

flecks of leaf and breakfast smudges and wattle pollen

until the glass was clear. Like making them new

again. You'd put them on – just as slowly

as you took them off – look around

at your familiar world and say:

There's no doubt about you.