grows dim
as my conviction
that it's never too late
to be taught. And still,
I walk on, lost
in thought, past
slumping shoulders,
weeping trees;
past slow-moving
pigeons, just begging
to be caught. But
this malaise
of imperfections,
these defects
are distractions; this world
I know
cannot be such a brittle star.
If anything, it's
a mousetrap—a lazy
seduction:
all things appear
weaker than
they really are.
