The fault goes
against the grain
impossible to chip away
&
find the parts remain
undamaged or unchanged
Such frail flaws
hold me in their thrall
until i lapse
&
fall
full
fathom
five
& further still
in pools of eyes where
a discarded sherd subsides within the shallows
of some compromise
i
should prefer
to think we were of
stone somehow too tough
uncut & rough, fractured
stuff too precious to
chance a glancing
blow
yet stone is stone
& never grows
& we are fragments now
our failings are ploughed
under
our hands cold on the
plough
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