the rough touches the dark

The split 

When I close my eyes

The thunderous clouds

Seem to clear

Isn't it something

Isn't it just right

As it is imperfect

The room of which genius

Becomes a cracked piece of glass

Edges that could cut

into paper hearts

scattered to bland

varnished floorboards

if magic permits

Our eyes might meet 

Between the cracks

it doesn't hurt that way

little is more

little is a place to be

that we may see the sun 

Behind the hill.



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