We exist as partial people
I am always somewhere else
inside and outside of self
a church with a crooked steeple.

There are cracks between us all
and there are cracks separating skin
pour your love into them, breath it in
broken pottery made whole.

Connections once tangible, fade
as you melt them into oblivion, insistent
on molding this moment, resistant
to the world outside, the light of day.

Repair, and bring golden into morning
as shadows skim a frayed surface,
appearing smooth beneath the furnace
of your hands, shaping and forming.

Chichester, March 2017


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