this is broken and waiting
for a foot, i think, bitter
from being used and tossed away:
but i found it, instead, and made
a poem about love and what is
broken is sometimes more
beautiful than what is
whole.
this is wood that once was
a chair, but it has been
plotting for years, i think--
notice how dull and beaten?--
making a plan to return to the
earth. so this wooden chair breaks
and just a piece of this leg remains,
basking in the sun.
a perfect roman tragedy.
the flower keeps its perfect shape
even in the street, after falling
beside a table for two. i pick it up
it keeps it's perfect shape for days
on my bedside table. it falls off
the table, i almost step on it--but don't.
the flower keeps its perfect shape.
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