Wednesday, 8 May 2013


You always said I
was a 10,000 piecer.
I always maintained
I was 10:
a child could fathom.
A smiling face
or a country wren.

You were the one

all a-jumble;
I just kept mine
out of sight.
But there's nothing wrong
with a crumble,
your possibilities twinkling
part-way in the light.

But I could see them.

And you could see mine.
All except for one:
maybe you took it.
Maybe I did the same.
Will I ever be complete
with a missing piece?

Put me together

but don't frame me.
There's nothing wrong
with boxes. A little dust
can't hurt.
But I wonder of
my missing -

where is it?

What's the word?
But I'm okay not knowing.
Love, don't give it back:
your piece fits mine
far better.

And there it is:


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