it is wonderful, but not

every painting has a color
you would have lightened, or made darker;
every symphony that yawned moment
when you start to think about what’s next;
each poem a phrase
you would have replaced with another;

all faces
a brow that you
would prefer were sculpted
every encounter a word
you chose poorly and dwelt on long

every interior, a pattern

your vacation has its cloudy Tuesday;
your house a cracked railing or
a creaking stair;

every flaw, a beauty;

every ending an incompleteness
that leaves you wishing that,
perhaps, you had not begun

          about “misproportioned” | the ochre chair >


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