Beauty, Flawed
It’s the thing I’m drawn to, the chipped tooth in pearling light, a hung door crooked in its frame, the snake’s shed skin shimmering by the lake, a spread of feathers in mud, one downy tuft Riffling in the wind, “Here, here, here.” Not that I’m impartial to perfection’s lull, oh, but the lie of it. Nothing speaks of faults like cracked cliffs crazed, the broken glaze of painted pottery, no story in the dead snag, split, gray, leaning into the weathered erosion of decay, the crooked path winding under the weight of stone, always falling, the asymmetric arc of exfoliation, harsh,...
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