Break into pieces

    and the pot will shatter
    its shards

    wherever the earth
    will collect them again,

    where all fragments
    wither, knowing this soil

    of the forgotten

    over-trod by generations

    who feast on time
    as if they had it all to themselves,

    the débris of the heart left
    for grave-robbers to discover

    yet I turn in my hand
    this one blue triangle over 

    that must have graced 
    someone’s living and now mine

    where the absence was

    I claim
    and declare it

    beautiful and incomplete,

    hoping for fingers

    to clench all indignities

                                                                --David Radavich



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